


Fancy meeting you here

by Teland



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, BDSM, Banter, Dirty Talk, Dogboys & Doggirls, First Time, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, Humor, Kink Negotiation, Knotting, Luckily So Is Porthos, M/M, Magic, Oral Sex, Parent/Child Incest, Polyamory Negotiations, Romance, Sexual Fantasy, Telepathy, Treville Is SO Bad At Boundaries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-01
Updated: 2019-04-01
Packaged: 2019-12-30 15:22:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 9
Words: 48,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18317978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teland/pseuds/Teland
Summary: "I won't run you over like a carter in the street, son."Porthos snorts hard."That didn't ring true?""Sir...""Mm? Tell me."Porthos *looks* at him -- and then nods slowly. "Right. You *don't* actually know this. I don't know why I'm surprised."Treville frowns. "Know what, son?""Sir, you have the ability to run a man down like --" Porthos shakes his head. "Just picture the kind of cart that would need about *six* of Lieutenant Kitos's horses in front of it in order for it to *get* anywhere --"Treville *coughs* --"That, sir. *That*. You run us *all* down like that. But you do it so gently, so easily, so *effortlessly*, that you make us *thank you for the bloody privilege* while we're still trying to figure *out* how to pick ourselves up out of the *wheel* ruts."





	1. In which Treville inadvertently makes every underage prostitute in Paris wish murder on blonds.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [naughtypixie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/naughtypixie/gifts).



> Disclaimers: If they were mine, I'd probably still be doing shit like this. There's just something *about* the feel of a battered keyboard under your quivering fingers. 
> 
> Spoilers: ... no. Well, all right, some AU-ized mentions of events which were mentioned in S2. Story takes place in a -- you guessed it -- AU-ized time pre-series. 
> 
> Author's Note: I started this in a brief reprieve from crushing depression last year, but couldn't finish it before I was in the pit again. But hey, here I am out of it again! Finishing shit! PLEASE BY EVERYTHING HOLY LET IT LAST. 
> 
> Acknowledgments: Much love and gratitude to Pixie, Spice, Melly, Houndstar, and, of course, my Jack. Y'all have put up with a *lot* this past year and change, and -- I wouldn't be here without you. Thank you. 
> 
> **ADDITIONAL NOTE:** Nobody is actually having sex with underage people in this fic... but. There's enough *talk* about sex with underage people that I wanted to play it safe. Caveat lector.

Laurent had given them all a timetable for his retirement -- and everything that had to happen in the years leading up to it. 

Everything they *all* had to do -- from Reynard taking firmer control of the training of the recruits, to Kitos taking *absolute* control of the quartermasters, to Treville... 

Well, he'd had a lot for Treville to do, but what's on his mind tonight as he scans the filth-lined streets for trouble -- 

He'd had a lot for Treville to *stop* doing, too. 

*Exactly* six months -- to the day -- before Laurent had submitted his frighteningly short list of men he believed were qualified to take over for him after he retired, Laurent had yanked Treville's lead when it came to the whoring every *last* man in the regiment -- and a fair percentage of the young men of Paris -- knew about him doing. 

No more boys. 

No more young men. 

No more *men* -- at which point Treville had protested vociferously: The only *men* he was fucking were Laurent, Kitos, and Reynard!

At which point Laurent had pointed out that he always preferred being thorough and careful when the option was available to him, raising an eyebrow at Treville and silently -- *powerfully* -- *daring* Treville to deny that any boy haunting a men's brothel wouldn't get thoroughly buggered *and* knotted should Laurent have left that prohibition *off*. 

So. 

Laurent had spent the rest of the time before his actual retirement convincing the Queen-Regent that he hadn't *actually* lost what was left of his mind; that Treville was, in fact, the *only* man qualified for the position -- 

Treville had long since given up on arguing with Laurent about this, himself -- 

And, by that point, Laurent had had Louis on his side. 

The deed was done, and Treville's life of continence and responsibility had begun. 

Which, of course, explains nothing about what he's doing *tonight* -- 

What he's doing *glamoured* to look like a man without a single strand of grey in his *blond* hair and *green* eyes -- 

What he's doing on a *rented* *palomino* who hasn't even tried to throw him *once* -- 

What he's doing... here. Dismounting in the stables attached to the wealthiest business in this otherwise *thoroughly* disreputable neighbourhood, which is, of *course*, a boys' brothel. 

He sighs at himself as he tips the stableboys -- who are just as lovely and flirtatious as they should be. This brothel offers *their* services, too -- for men who fancy a rougher ride. 

Treville doesn't recognize either of them, though -- he hasn't been here in years. He didn't come here *that* often even *before* Laurent had put the lead on -- the *brothel* may be wealthy, but this neighbourhood isn't all that far from the Court of Miracles, and that... 

That has any number of problems attached to it. He laughs ruefully and walks in -- and breathes. 

Musk. Perfume. Spend from men of *all* ages -- though at least one of the boys in this brothel is a little young for *his* tastes, by the scents. He'll have to keep an eye out. He --

He wasn't *supposed* to come *back*. 

He -- 

But...

But. 

There are a lot of excuses he could make. A lot of -- 

Laurent spending more time in the countryside with Marie-Angelique and Thomas, when they can be spared from the roles they play at court -- the roles that sometimes do far more to keep the King's Musketeers in fighting trim than anything *Treville* does. 

Kitos and Reynard still being *actual soldiers* -- and riding out on missions without him. 

Being forced to *send* them out on missions without him, and fuck, but every single *time* it's an ache, it's ripping a part of himself *off* with no *laudanum*. 

He swallows a *growl* -- 

He pulls on a pleasant *expression* -- and he *exchanges* pleasantries with Elias, the procurer. The years have been kinder to him than they are to most who live in this part of Paris. He's a little fuller about the face and features than he was a few years ago, but on him it looks like a purposeful decision to take up healthful living. Smells like it, too. 

He has no *idea* what he wants tonight -- and he says just that. Elias gestures expansively, and avows that he can look at his leisure -- though, of course, the refreshments are only complimentary for those who have already paid for a boy. 

Treville agrees to this with a smile he *hopes* looks real enough, and then moves further into the large parlor area. It... 

There are *excuses* he can make for this. 

If he's being generous with himself, and remembering how much pleasure he's received from and given *to* young men over the years -- he could even call some few of those excuses reasons. 

But, in the end, he isn't sure if he *wants* to be that generous with himself. 

He had made promises to Laurent, promises to his lover, brother, and *Captain*, and, right now, as he steps down toward the soft, well-stuffed couches, he is -- 

"Is that so, then? Just what *are* you going to do to make me lose this game, eh?"

\-- breaking. Them. *Fuck* -- 

Treville *forces* himself not to stop dead, to keep moving easily and casually, to keep holding his *power* at the *ready* so that his glamour won't stutter -- 

But that's Porthos du Vallon not ten feet away from him, laughing his arse off in a clutch of young boys as they all drink and play cards. 

They -- 

*Fuck* -- 

In *all* of his years garrisoned in Paris, he -- and Kitos when he dragged him here -- were the *only* Musketeers to patronize this brothel, and -- 

And Treville honestly hadn't expected -- 

It's so far off the beaten *path* for the men -- 

For. 

For most of the men. 

*Porthos* -- who is *already* one of his best men despite being one of them for less than a *year* -- was *raised* in the Court of Miracles. 

Porthos... knows this neighbourhood just fine. 

Porthos -- but had Treville even had a tickle of a *guess* about this? 

He'd known from ten *minutes* into his initial interview with Porthos that a) he'd be riding with Athos sooner rather than later, and b) Athos would fall head over heels in love with him, whether or not he noticed, and that c) *Treville* would be doing everything in his power to make sure all of that went *smoothly*. But...

To the *best* of his knowledge -- and the knowledge of his *nose* -- Athos's and Porthos's relationship remains entirely innocent, if as close and dear and *passionate* as any regimental commander could wish for his men. 

Could Porthos *only* be interested in *young* boys?

How far does his deviance go?

Could this be a *problem*?

Another loud, beautiful, *big* laugh -- "Oi, now, Marc, keep those baby blues on your *own* cards --" 

"But your cards are much more interesting!" 

Porthos snorts and gently -- as gently as any man could wish -- removes the raven-haired Marc's hands from the laces of his trousers -- 

"Porthos!" 

"You'll not find my cards in *there* --" 

"But you do not *wish* to play *cards*!" 

"I *truly* do," Porthos says. The *useful* tension in his shoulders says he knows he's been being watched for a goodly period of time -- which is more than Treville can say for how well he's doing at keeping himself on a lead. 

The boys pout and plead and tease -- 

Porthos scolds and promises in equal measure -- always gently -- and, after a moment, looks directly at *him*. "I'd also like to have a bit of a chat with that gentleman over there, if you boys wouldn't mind...?" 

The looks the boys shoot Treville aren't venomous -- the boys are far too professional for that -- but it's clear that Treville is going to have to put some time and effort into repairing his reputation in this brothel -- no. 

He's not *here* for -- 

He's not coming *back* -- 

And the boys have scattered to their own games and posing, and Porthos -- Porthos is looking at Treville expectantly. 

Well --

He might as well ask the man a few direct -- or mostly direct -- questions. 

Treville takes a breath, gives himself something of an *internal* shake, and sits beside Porthos on the couch, offering his arm. "Gerard Harcourt," he says, and *immediately* feels like an arsehole -- 

Porthos's expression quirks in *that* way -- 

And -- 

There is, perhaps, *one* way to do this, and still be a reasonably decent person. 

"Perhaps you could give me... hm. We both know it's a false name. What you might *not* know is that I hate lies and liars, and that *I* only ever lie to protect things and people I can't protect in other ways," he says, and looks Porthos dead in the eye. And leaves himself open.

Porthos blinks -- 

Frowns -- 

Raises an eyebrow at Treville's entirely un-glamoured *calluses* -- 

*Why* did he have to be vain about *that* -- but. *Porthos* has no way to know that Treville *is* glamoured. The fact that he knows Treville is a soldier... is not the most dire of events. Still -- "I'm asking you not to ask about those." 

"Right," Porthos says, and takes a breath. "What's so interesting about *me*, then, Gerard? Are we also pretending that you don't know me from... wherever the hell?" 

Treville snorts and -- doesn't pinch the bridge of his nose. That would be *entirely* too obvious. 

Porthos raises his eyebrows *pointedly* -- 

And Treville nods. "Porthos. I won't pretend not to know you. Musketeers make a name for themselves all over *Europe*." 

"I haven't been --" 

"Porthos. Once you enlisted, your identity was *scoured* -- as much as humanly possible, and then just a bit *more* than that -- for potentially problematic information by *several* people. That's just how the Musketeers *work*. *If* the Musketeers *didn't* work that way? They would've fallen apart -- been disbanded in *disgrace* -- years before you ever heard of them." 

Porthos blinks -- 

Treville raises an eyebrow -- 

"You're nobility." 

Treville doesn't say a *word* -- 

And Porthos raises both hands and gestures for peace. "Sorry. I'll just -- we both know I've had to put a lot of damned time and effort into *learning* who was who in the gentry." 

Treville -- winces. 

"And you -- hate lies and liars," Porthos says, and nods slowly. "Right, got it. Why are you here tonight. Really." 

And *that*... is much safer ground. Treville grins and makes a *point* of taking in *all* the boys in view. 

Porthos *cuffs* him -- 

Treville *coughs* -- 

"Oh -- *shit* --" 

"I --" 

"Sorry, I --" 

"Do *not* apologize --" 

"Are you *sure* --"

"*Yes*," Treville says firmly. "At least not until I can be less of a liar." 

"Right, fine," Porthos says, and cuffs him again. "Show some *respect*." 

Treville hums. "You come here... for the companionship?"

"Uhh..." 

Treville raises an eyebrow -- 

Porthos licks his lips -- 

Treville raises an eyebrow. "Difficult question...?" 

"*Look* -- I -- uh." And then Porthos laughs again, bright and bold and -- "I don't know why I'm even embarrassed, considering what a deviant you *obviously* are." 

That. Treville frowns. "Don't -- I might have been lying to --" 

"Make me comfortable enough to give up my secrets...?" Porthos grins at him. "Nah. You were honest beyond *belief* when you said you hated lying. And, for whatever reason, you'd *really* rather be honest right now. Well, no, it makes sense. Lying when you're getting your ashes hauled takes all the *joy* out of it --" 

"That's *right* --" 

"Yeah, eh? I mean, some people, they tell all sorts of stories to the people they fuck so they can get what they want out of them, but it's the most hollow thing in the *world*. It's *empty*." Porthos gives himself a shake. 

"I..." 

"*You* are someone who can't keep his stories in place even for the length of time it takes to brace a first-year Musketeer in a boys' brothel at the edge of the bloody Court of Miracles. You hate lying *precisely* as much as you say you do. You're gentry, and you're probably in the government some-bloody-where, but you're sure as fuck not a *spy*." 

Treville stares at Porthos. Just -- stares. 

Porthos raises his eyebrows. 

Treville badly, *badly* wants to ask if Porthos braces Athos this firmly, this *ruthlessly* -- but. 

He already knows the answer to that question: If he *did*, Athos would've already been sucking his cock *daily*. 

Treville sighs happily and makes a mental note to do something about the problem -- 

"What's that?" 

"Mm?" 

"I think you just had a *really* deviant thought, mate." 

Treville blinks -- and thinks about it. About -- 

He *doesn't* lift his nose, and he doesn't *flare* his nostrils, but...

He opens himself, just a little -- 

He reaches beyond himself for the power he can't *sense* in Porthos, but -- 

"Gerard?" 

"You... are a *remarkably* intuitive young man." 

"And I *thought* you were older than you looked --" 

"I gave you that one --" 

"That you did --" 

"I." 

"Mm?" And Porthos raises his eyebrows at him again. 

There's no power there. No... Porthos isn't a witch, much less another earth-mage who is utterly in *tune* with Treville's own power. There isn't -- 

"I'm about to ask you if there's something in my teeth, mate." 

"Mostly my pride in myself as a reasonably circumspect man." 

Porthos snorts and gives him a playful little shove. "Don't feel bad, eh? I came up hard. If you don't learn how to read people *really sodding well* in the Court, then you don't come up, at all." 

Treville hums again. "Perhaps Captain Treville should make *you* an intelligence officer." 

Porthos actually *recoils*, and then makes several warding gestures from several different *cultures*. 

Treville laughs hard. "So you'll think about it?" 

"*Arse*. Those people have to lie all the *time*!" 

"That they do --" 

"I wouldn't bloody *survive*." 

"You'd... wilt like a hothouse flower, perhaps?" And Treville grins his *best* arsehole-grin --

"I." Porthos scowls at him. 

Treville laughs hard -- and fights back the sudden almost *painful* need to talk about the arguments he and Laurent used to get into when Laurent had tried to get him to work harder on his ability to be a *good* courtier. 

This -- 

This isn't -- 

It wouldn't even be appropriate if he was talking to Porthos *as* his Captain, not really, and -- 

And Porthos cuffs him again. Just -- 

"Mm?" 

"Your mood just took a turn --" 

Treville coughs -- "I'm going to *tell* Treville to make you an intelligence agent --" 

"*I'm* going to tell all these boys that your cock has a bend in it and smells like *cheese* --" 

Treville splutters --

"*That's* got it. Now what made you upset before? Can you say?" 

And this... is some of what he'd seen in Porthos that first day. 

This gentleness. This *openness*. This eager readiness to open his mind and heart and soul -- 

He's Athos's *godfather*, and, before that, he was *Olivier's* godfather. *Both* he and his brother Thomas were decidedly odd children who grew into decidedly odd young men and who have now grown into *extremely* odd adults. 

The *difference* is that *Thomas* is a natural born courtier with his *mother's* ability to *mask* his oddness -- and deviance -- when necessary, whereas Athos... 

Athos, like his father Laurent -- and his godfather Treville, for that matter -- damned well needs brothers to keep his secrets for him. 

Treville has been struggling to *think* of just what sort of men would be perfect to use to build a unit around Athos since *Olivier* was *ten*. Meeting Porthos had answered -- nearly -- every lingering question. 

"Well, your mood's better *now*, but --" 

"I -- was thinking about keeping secrets, Porthos. About the fact that I *dearly* wished that I did not have to do it, because there were specific things that I wanted to tell *you*. That's all," Treville says, and smiles ruefully. 

"Uh." 

Treville raises his eyebrows. 

"I want to ask questions." 

"Hm. Don't?" 

Porthos snorts and cuffs him *again* -- 

Treville grins helplessly. 

"Right, fine. Then I'll ask an *easy* question." 

"Mm?" 

"Why are you bracing me *here*? What do you want to know about me and young *boys*?" 

"Ah." 

"Yeah?" 

"How young?" 

"Uh." 

"Tough question?" 

"*Odd* question from a man who can give a look like *that* to a boy selling his arse." And Porthos gives *him* a look. 

And that -- Treville smiles wryly. "You have a point." 

"I did notice that." 

"I'm glad." 

Porthos snorts -- and then gives him a serious look. A *hard* look. 

"Porthos --" 

"I'm enjoying myself with you. We both know *that*. But this isn't going anywhere if you can't sodding tell me *why you're bracing me*." 

Honesty, then. "I need to know if this..." And Treville's gesture takes in every plump little arse in this room -- "Is going to be a *problem* for the King's Musketeers." 

Porthos blinks. 

"Is it that much of a surprise?" 

Porthos opens his *mouth* -- and then closes it again. "No, actually. There are a *lot* of deviants in the regiment -- an *impressive* number, really --" 

Treville does *not* thank Porthos for noticing all their hard work -- 

"-- but... none of them..." He shakes his head. "Whoever you are, and whoever *your* mates are, you do a bloody good job keeping the *arseholes* out of the regiment." 

And -- "You've looked." 

Porthos raises a *challenging* eyebrow. "Is it that much of a surprise?" 

Treville smiles ruefully. "Decreasingly so." 

"Right, you need answers about me, and boys, and because *you're* nobility --" 

"Porthos --" 

"And *I'm* a first-year Musketeer *right* out of the gutter --" 

"Don't --" 

"I have to answer you. About what my *cock* does and does *not* like *when*," Porthos says, and raises his eyebrows. 

That -- Treville growls helplessly. "After this -- ask me anything. Please. *Please*." 

Porthos blinks. "You meant that. You hate putting me on the spot *that* much." 

"Trust your *instincts*."

Porthos frowns. "I -- no, wait, I -- look. Just -- I like *this* brothel because it's clean, and about as safe for the boys as a brothel *can* be -- and, yes, I *have* checked, with *all* the boys. Including the *kitchen* boys who *don't* peddle it. This place has about twice as many kitchen boys as it *needs*, because Elias is *constantly* snatching up too-young boys who *would* otherwise be selling it and putting them to work in ways that won't *hurt* them." And Porthos raises his eyebrows again. 

Treville blinks -- and grins. 

"Feel better, do you?" 

"Yes --" 

"Why didn't *you* know that about Elias?" 

"I don't come here -- often." 

"Why not? *Where* do you go, eh? I'm upmarket now -- ish. When we *do* get paid, I can actually afford nice places --" 

"Treville..." Damnit -- "He hates how much he has to short you boys." 

"We can all tell. 's not like he can fund the whole regiment *himself*," Porthos says, breezy and unconcerned. 

Treville growls and glares at -- oh, *several* royal personages.

"It really upsets you..." 

"Of course it -- a regiment doesn't live on honour alone, son." 

Porthos snorts. "No, it *doesn't*. But uh..." Porthos bumps him with his shoulder. "A *regiment* bloody well figures out on its *own* how to live... so long as it *has* the honour to build on. The Captain, the officers -- they all give us that. And you're telling me that they wouldn't be able to do that without support in the *lofty* shadows, and that makes a *lot* of sense, so, you know, *you* give us that, too. Don't get all fucked in the head about the things you *can't* fix." 

Treville stops. 

Considers -- 

Licks his lips -- 

Considers *more* -- 

"When you come to places like this --" 

"Back to this line of questioning, then?" 

"No, I'm -- I'm not *vetting* you --" 

"No? What, then?" 

They meet each other's eyes, as much as it's possible to do with Treville behind what increasingly feels like a brick *wall* of glamour -- and Treville lets himself grin. "You play with the boys. You talk to them. You tease and coax and chivvy their troubles out of them...?" 

"I..." 

"You do." 

Porthos blushes like a boy, himself. "Um. Yeah..." 

Treville hums. "I do the exact same things, you know. When... I *can* be more of the man I actually am." 

"Yeah? And then what." 

And that is a *bracing* question -- but an earned one. Treville shows his teeth. "A man isn't a man if he doesn't do his *damnedest* to ease the cares and problems of the people who do the exact same things for him, son." 

Porthos licks his lips and nods slowly -- and then smiles, bright and wide and... beautiful. 

Just -- 

"I've *always* lived that way, Gerard --" 

"Fuck --" 

"And you *hate* that fake name -- c'mon, now, you should at least pick a fake name you can live with *hearing*!" 

Treville coughs and just -- "I -- hm." 

"I have a point?" 

"That you do, son." 

"You... are *really* close to Treville." 

*Shit* -- 

"I mean, I haven't had a *lot* of conversations with him --" 

"I sound like him." 

"That you *do*, *Gerard*." 

"Please don't --"

"I mean, I wouldn't have *noticed* if there weren't at least *eight* other blokes in the regiment -- *including me* -- who *also* talk like him --" 

"Wait, what?" 

"You hadn't picked that one up in all your... identity-scouring? The men -- *we* -- *adore* Treville. We walk like him, talk like him, *barber* ourselves like him, *scowl* like him -- all of it. *All* of it." 

"I..." 

"Mm?" 

They blink at each other for long moments. 

Treville licks his lips -- 

And then Porthos swallows and nods slowly, eyes widening as he looks down at Treville's *hands* again -- 

Treville's un-glamoured *hands* -- 

"I told myself... uh. I told myself I was *imagining* things with those hands of yours, sir --" 

"Don't --" 

"Right -- not here. Sorry --" 

"Not that, either," Treville says, and laughs painfully. "Can I..." 

"Mm?" And Porthos looks *up* again. 

Treville makes his eyes gleam. Just for Porthos. 

Porthos nods once. "Thank you for that. It explains a lot -- Gerard." 

"You don't have to thank --" Treville growls. "Let me... take you somewhere, son. Somewhere we can speak *openly*." 

Porthos raises his eyebrows. 

"No?" 

"That's not exactly what you came out for tonight --"

"And it's not what *you* came out for tonight --" Treville growls again and shakes his head once. "My predecessor was never more strict with himself, never more *ruthless*, than when he was *demanding* that the regiment got the recreation *we* all wanted and needed. *All* of the recreation we wanted and -- I apologize, son, I won't --" 

"Uh. You *want* to spend time with me tonight? Just... talking about things?" 

There's a right answer to this. There's an honorable -- 

There's a proper -- 

There's an honest answer. "Son, to be perfectly honest, I'd like to take you out whoring *every* weekend --" 

*Porthos* coughs -- 

Treville grins ruefully and -- cups Porthos's shoulder. Just that. Just that. "I'd like to spend more time with you tonight, yes. Perhaps... there's a teahouse near here I used to spend a *great* deal of time in with my brothers. It's open late -- or it used to be --" 

"Oh -- it still is! I love that place!" Porthos grins. "The maids are gorgeous, too --" 

Treville hums. "Women *and* boys, son?" 

Porthos coughs and stands, offering Treville a hand up. 

Treville takes it, and tamps *down* the disappointment when Porthos doesn't stay close for more than a moment. His heart and mind are in the teahouse *talking*, but his cock...

Well, his cock is still right here in this lovely and likely little whorehouse. 

Still -- "About that cough?" 

Porthos smiles ruefully and tips the -- lovely -- teenager behind the bar before taking his cloak off the peg on the wall. 

Treville *also* tips the teenager behind the bar before retrieving his much-less-notable cloak -- and then they walk out into the night. 

"Did you bring your -- no, of course you didn't bring your own horse, but --" 

"I have a rented palomino in the stables, son. I didn't notice your black?" 

"Nah, Yves is at the hostler's closest to my rooms, sir. It's only about a mile -- and I like the way they treat him." 

"Then we'll walk," Treville says, and doesn't say anything else while Porthos pretends he isn't blushing *furiously* at the prospect of 'forcing' his commanding officer to walk instead of ride. 

He does a damned good job of that, really -- he manages to flirt with the stableboys with barely a stammer -- but he's still blushing. Treville grins. 

And, once they're far *enough* away from the brothel, he lets his glamour melt away. 

"Shit -- hunh." 

"Mm?" 

"That smile on your face is about a thousand times more obnoxious *now*, sir." 

Treville snorts. "It's been said before --" 

"*Has* it." 

"It has, it has. About that *cough*, son --" 

"I like men, women, boys, girls -- uh. I like *everyone*, sir. Including the people in between. You know." 

Treville rumbles in pleasure and revives his hopes for his godson. "That I do, son."

"Am I allowed to ask --" 

"You're allowed to ask absolutely everything, son. Especially since --" Treville shakes his head once. "I absolutely was *not* supposed to be in that brothel tonight. I promised Laurent -- my predecessor and my eldest, dearest brother -- that I would *not* be whoring that way anymore, and I had every intention of *keeping* that promise --" 

"But..." 

"Wait one moment, son." 

"Right, sir, go on," Porthos says. He's blushing again. 

Treville smiles ruefully and reaches up to pat his rented filly Lune. She's just as placid as Lisle, and, truly, the paranoid part of him is wondering how obvious he's *becoming* in his old age. But that's not what he's supposed to be thinking on right now. "The enlisted men can fuck about just as much as they want, Porthos -- to a certain extent. The officers have to follow just a few more rules than that. 

"The Captain... do you see?" 

"Yes, sir. Your brother knew he was going to make you the Captain, so he had to make you... follow the rules." 

"That's right --" 

"Even though you can do things like glamour yourself so well... well, he knows you. He *probably* knows how *bad* you are at keeping to your lies." 

Treville smiles ruefully. "He most certainly does, son. He used to do his damnedest to make me better at it -- him *and* his wife, my sister --" 

"They gave up on you?" 

"I forced them to, son. I could stand still for the lessons in how to navigate the French court, but the lessons in how to *live* a *lie*?" He shakes his head. 

"Hunh." 

"Mm." 

"No, I..." Porthos strokes his beard. "I just always thought that those two things had a *lot* in common." 

"Ah, well. They *do*, son. But not everything. You'll see for yourself, as you rise." 

Porthos -- blushes again and seems to be trying to figure out how to *march* casually for a few steps -- he stops that and walks. "I -- yes, sir. So... you weren't in that brothel tonight for anything but --" 

"Hauling the ashes of at least one, but, considering how *long* it's been, *probably* two plump and likely young boys."

"*Right*. Even though..." 

"Mm?" 

"Well -- you're not *just* a witch, sir. You're a bloody shifter, and -- uh. I mean. I'm pretty sure..." Porthos looks at him. "I mean, I'd be *really* surprised if you weren't a dog, sir." 

"I am not going to surprise you tonight, son." 

Porthos snorts. "*Right*. How the bloody hell have you been whoring around Paris with a *knot*, sir?" 

"I've *seen* your cock, son --" 

Porthos coughs -- 

"You can't *tell* me you don't go *everywhere* without at least a *little* pomade --" 

"Yeah, but -- that's not what -- for fuck's *sake*, sir!" 

Treville lolls his tongue. 

Porthos splutters and smacks the back of his *head*. It -- 

He -- 

He'd just -- 

It's *exactly* what Treville had *asked* for with this entire *conversation*, but -- 

"Uhh... is this where I *grovel* an apology --" 

"*No*!" 

Lune snorts and tosses her head a little -- 

Treville turns and rumbles and pets, reaches for her spirit and calms her *right* back down -- 

"Fuck -- are you using *magic* to settle her?" 

"I truly am, because I don't have *time* to do it the human way, son," Treville says, and uses just a little bit of *force* on her spirit -- there. She settles just right. 

And Porthos -- Porthos looks too *small*. Too -- 

Treville *growls*. "What I *meant* when I said I had no time --" He shakes his head and growls more. "You've done nothing wrong, son. You -- fuck only knows I've behaved *nothing* but inappropriately with you tonight, nothing but *incorrectly* --" 

"No, don't --" 

"Just this, son. Just this: *Appropriate* and *correct* are, sometimes, *exactly* as relevant as the shite on your boots," Treville says, and raises his eyebrows. 

"I..." 

"Maybe... you'd like a better idea of when to make that measure with me?" 

"*Yes*, sir --" 

Treville steps closer. Just one step. Just one, and he can smell apprehension and worry, a touch of honest *fear*, but he can also smell hope, pleasure, need, arousal -- 

Treville growls -- 

*Every* one of Porthos's scents *spikes* -- but all he does is swallow and nod. "I -- I could use... help. Figuring out when to be myself with you, sir." 

All the bloody *time* -- "Never stop, son. Never *stop* --" 

"*Sir* --" 

"... when we're alone together," Treville says, and raises an eyebrow. And -- 

There's a moment -- there *is* -- when the realization *falls* on Treville: What he just said. What he's *been* saying, all night. What he's *asking* for from his beautiful and intelligent and warm and loving and kind and wise and giving -- 

What he's asking for. 

"I think..." 

"Son --" 

"You want it," Porthos says. "You want..." And Porthos is looking at him with wide eyes, with comprehension, with curiosity and incredulity and amusement and -- "What's this, then, sir? Is this against the rules, or...?" 

Treville coughs a laugh. "Son, I..." He shakes his head. "No. It isn't." 

"*Really*, now." 

"You -- really do talk like me." 

"That I do, sir. It's *fair* to say that you're the man I admire most in the world," Porthos says, and waggles his eyebrows -- and gestures down the street. 

Treville snorts. "That is, by far, the most terrifying sentence that has ever been spoken in my hearing, son. And I was there the day Captain Bissette threatened to take Cook's tripe budget away." 

"What -- not the *tripe*?"

Treville nods solemnly. "Cook had to put his foot down. It came down to mutiny, really. I..." 

"Mm?"

"Are you *aware* that you don't *have* to let me seduce you?"

Porthos only looks at him for long moments. Studies him, truly -- from the hand he has on Lune's strong neck, to his frankly *needy* gaze, to his *other* hand on the lead. And then he looks back into Treville's eyes and frowns. 

"Tell me, son." 

"I believe you, you know." 

Treville takes a breath. "It would kill me..." He shakes his head. "Before I was a *lieutenant* of the King's Musketeers, when I was just another *fourth*-rate noble *arsehole*, I made love with *many* of the boys at the garrison, and some few of the men, too. And then I stopped that, even though it wasn't against the rules." 

"You didn't like the... pressure the boys could feel." 

"That's right. *I* never felt pressured when it was me and Laurent -- not in any way I didn't *love* -- but he kept himself to the kind of rigid, exacting standards of behaviour that I don't think..." 

"You don't trust yourself with me, sir...?" And Porthos cocks his head to the side. 

That. Treville barks a laugh. "You have to know -- part of me wants to use this to gently, *gently* urge you to seduce my godson, if you have even the *slightest* inclination --" 

"Your -- fuck -- *Athos*?"

"I've wanted you for him from the *beginning* --" 

"Of bloody *course* I want him!" 

They stare at each other for long moments. 

Treville raises an eyebrow. Slowly. 

"Right, listen carefully, sir. I'll use small words and everything --" 

Treville coughs -- 

"He. Said. *No*." 

"But --" 

"*Multiple times* --" 

"But have you --" 

"*Even when I offered to put a woman between us*. Or a *boy*. Or a *girl*." 

Treville stares more. Just -- stares. 

"Now, what I *haven't* offered to do is to put *you* between us --" 

Treville *yelps* -- 

"That is a *fascinating* noise, sir, but, ultimately, *not* unexpected, and I'm sure Athos will grow used to it in time --" 

"Oh fuck –" 

"Is this where we change the subject, *sir*." 

Treville hands Porthos Lune's lead, walks away a few paces, and gives himself a thorough shake. And then he returns and takes the lead back. "Teahouse? Or your rooms?" 

"Depends, sir." 

"Yes?" 

"Are you going to tell me how many of the *other* men you fuck because you're *not* fucking your godson?" 

Treville suspects he looks stricken. 

Porthos raises those eyebrows. 

Treville takes a *breath* -- but. 

But this is familiar, too, isn't it? Long nights being teased and skewered and *raked* over the *coals* by the most beautiful woman in all the spheres... 

He'd come here *for* her, once upon a time. 

She hadn't worked at that teahouse for all *that* long, in the grand scheme of things, but it was a good place for all of them, and they'd all just kept *going*, and -- 

"Sir..." 

Treville smiles ruefully. "Your capacity for care is incredible, son." 

"Uh... what?" 

Treville looks up into Porthos's wide, dark, confused -- and just a little *soft* eyes. "You've gone from being ready to *roast* me on my own hypocrisies to being ready to comfort me. It's perfectly amazing." 

"I..." Porthos shakes his head. "Tell me if you *need* to change the subject, sir." 

"I don't. I was thinking of how much you remind me -- in some ways -- of a love I lost a long, long time ago --" 

"Oh --" 

"-- and not, at all, of my *godson*." 

Porthos blinks -- and obviously takes that in with a slow nod. 

Treville waits him out. 

"You're saying I'm not -- a placeholder." 

"Precisely, son." 

"You're saying there haven't *been* placeholders." 

Treville opens his mouth to say just that -- but. 

"There *have* been?" 

"Not -- for Athos," Treville says, frowning and patting Lune absently. 

"Then... but you do have two godsons. Thomas is the other one, right?" 

"Yes, but -- not him, either --" 

"You have *other* children? Bastards?" 

"I *had* a child," Treville says, growling hard and making it necessary to exert an unconscionable amount of force to keep Lune calm. "I had -- a son." 

Porthos inhales sharply. "Oh... sir..." 

"Don't --" 

"Just... was it a very long time ago, sir?" 

"I lost. I lost my wife and son over twenty years ago now --" 

"And maybe there's no other woman in the world who's as real and true and right as she was --" 

"*Yes* --" 

"And maybe every boy you see who's even a little bit good in *any* way feels like he *could* be yours, if only fate wasn't such an arsehole --" 

"*Fuck*, Porthos, you --" 

"I just uh. You see a lot of this. When you see a lot of death," Porthos says, and when Treville can stop snarling and *look* at him, he's only looking down into Treville's eyes, calm and open and ready and *accepting*. 

Welcoming and warm and understanding -- 

So -- 

"Too much -- it's too *much*," Treville says, and lurches a few steps *away* from Porthos, mercifully-calm Lune in tow -- 

Porthos follows. "I think -- I think maybe you haven't been talking enough to your mates. Your brothers. Your sister --" 

"Porthos, don't --" 

"I think there's something *about* me that makes you -- um. All *sorts* of people open up to me, sooner or later..." 

*That*... "Son. Tell me about the weight," Treville says, and takes a shuddering breath -- 

"Sir...?" 

Treville takes another breath, and another, and *another* -- 

"That's good, sir, that's good..." 

And then he can breathe without shuddering, and walk, and think -- "Tell me about the *weight*, son." 

"I don't --" 

"You take other people's pain on yourself, son. You do it -- mm. I bet you do it at least a *little* every *day*." 

"No --" 

"No?" 

"Not... not *really* --" 

"You take their pain, and you ease it. You give them sweetness, laughter, care, gentleness. You give them your big, warm hands. You give them your big, warm heart." 

"I *have* to --" 

"You don't ever say no." 

"How do you -- you can't be a *person* --" 

"And then you go to your rooms, and you're alone, and you do... what? Exactly." 

"Well... I study, or I listen... the neighbor has a flute they like to practice. He only misses one note in fifteen or twenty these days. I go out to drink, or whore. I *mostly* go out to sharp, so I can make enough money to pay for, you know, the incidentals. That takes up a lot of time --" 

"And energy, and mind-power. You don't think about the weight. You don't think about the pain." 

"No, it doesn't -- there's no problem. There's nothing --" 

"And your dreams, son?" 

Porthos covers a flinch by pretending he'd tripped on an uneven cobble. 

But Treville can smell him. He nods.


	2. At some point, Treville will grow a filter, and I will be clit-broken.

"Just -- just -- 's not like I can --" 

"I'd like to bear the weight with you, son." 

"Wh-what?" 

"I'd like to share your *pain* with you." 

"You don't -- you don't *owe* me anything, sir --" 

"I know that, son... but I want to be closer to you. And this is *one* of the ways I want for that to happen," Treville says, and leaves himself open. 

Porthos shivers and swallows and runs his hand back over his scarf -- fidgets like a boy. "I'll um. Have to think about that." 

"Please do, son." 

Porthos nods, and they walk in silence for a little while. Treville eases the pressure on Lune's spirit, murmuring apologies and praise as they go -- 

"Do you uh... *what* did you do to Lune?" 

"Put magical blinkers on her *entire* soul." 

"Right, do you do that to *all* your horses?" 

"Absolutely *not* --" 

"Because the other men say your Lisle is the calmest horse on the *planet* --" 

Treville growls helplessly -- 

"That she's, you know, as mellow as someone's elderly *nursery* hound --" 

"You take that back!" 

Lune whickers and glares at both of them -- fuck -- 

Treville calms himself *down* -- 

"No, I'm not -- I'm not *insulting* her, sir --" 

Treville swallows back another *growl* -- 

"Uhh... do you need me to change the subject?" 

Treville doesn't *growl* -- 

Lune *stamps*, which isn't the best -- 

This street is *unevenly* cobbled -- 

"*Lune* thinks I should change the subject --" 

"Porthos --" 

"I mean, it's *fascinating* that you're this passionate about the spirit of your horses --" 

"I like." 

"Mm?" 

Treville -- takes a breath. 

And another. 

And smiles ruefully at the brilliant and wonderful young man beside him. 

Porthos smiles back, and raises his eyebrows as they walk. 

"I -- wasn't always a shifter." 

Porthos blinks. "What -- no? But..." 

Treville smiles wryly and dreams, a little, of his Amina-love...

His beautiful and raucous and wild and *perfect* -- 

Lost. 

And that's not for right now. 

"I was made into this -- along with my mate -- in a series of rituals that were designed to bind us soul to soul and blood to *blood* -- and allow me to protect her and her to protect *herself*." 

"Shit... uh. That's not... uh." 

"Mm?" 

"No, it's just. I *know* you're an earth-mage, sir, but that's *blood*-magic, and a *lot* of it. That -- wasn't that really sodding dangerous?" 

"It was. And, to be honest, it had no right to work as well as it did. But the witches who *did* the binding were *extremely* powerful and knowledgeable, and --" 

"You and your mate *wanted* it." 

"More than anything, son. Never mind being mated -- we were *for* each other. We craved each other's time and attention and *conversation* from the very first moment." 

"Ohh... fuck. My mum always said it was *like* that with your mate..." 

Treville blinks. "She taught you about this, son?" 

Porthos nods, thoughtful and a little distant. "She always taught me as much as she could about, you know, witchcraft. So did her friends." 

Treville rumbles in approval. "Good. This is not what I wanted to talk about, though." 

"No?" 

"Mm," Treville says, and they take a turn onto a brighter, wider thoroughfare with just a few more passersby. "I wasn't born a *shifter*... but I was always a witch." 

"Right, yeah, you would've had to be. A -- weaker one?" 

"That's right. Still an earth-mage, though. And -- you know how we are with animals just in general, right?" 

"Oh, yeah -- I've always heard that even the weakest earth-mages can sweet-talk most *any* animal. And... maybe plants, too?" 

Treville snorts. "I'm useless with plants, unless we're talking about how good I am at aiming my piss at Richelieu's tulips --" 

Porthos splutters again -- 

Treville grins. "But I was saying -- when I was regular Army, I took on the responsibility of... helping out with the horses." 

"Yes, sir?" 

"Oh, yes. It was something I *could* do very well, and I very quickly came to *need* to do it, because... well. A shifter is always *best* at communicating with the animals they shift into, but that doesn't mean other animals don't make themselves abundantly clear more often than not." 

"Oh..." 

"So I would see the men *struggling* with the horses -- angry horses, fearful horses, hungry horses, hurting horses, frustrated horses -- and even though I was just a boy myself at the time, I realized that the men had no bloody idea what the horses were saying, and that the horses often had no capacity to understand what the *men* were saying -- not in the states they were in." 

"You helped." 

"That's right, son. I worked *extensively* with our stableboys -- since I wasn't ranked high enough to get rid of the useless, torturing fuck of a stablemaster --" 

"Fuck --" 

"Exactly. I taught the boys better. How to listen to the horses. How to see, better, what the horses needed. A horse, like a dog, will really do a great *deal* to *tell* a man what they need --" 

"I did notice that, sir," Porthos says, and grins at him. 

Treville hums. "I suppose I *have* heard good things about your horsemanship from the boys..." 

"Oh, fuck, that's -- uh." 

"A good Captain keeps an eye on his men, son." 

"Right, but we've *established* that *you* want to keep an eye -- and a lot of other things -- on my *arse*, sir." 

Treville sighs happily. 

Porthos snorts. "*Right*. But back to the horses?" 

"Back to the horses," Treville says, and smiles nostalgically, breathes deep of the remembered scents of Éventreur, when he was just *barely* mature enough to start being trained to be a regiment horse -- 

And *exactly* old enough to start wreaking havoc absolutely everywhere. 

"*Those* look like good memories..." 

"I'm thinking of my Éventreur." 

"Uh. *Disemboweller*?" 

"Isn't that a great name?" 

"No?" 

"Well, I suppose you can't have good taste in every way --" 

Porthos *snorts* -- 

And Treville winks at him. "I helped out with the horses. And it didn't take very long at all for me to grow *exceedingly* fond of the *belligerent* horses. The *bloody*-minded horses. The *violent* horses. The horses that wouldn't take gentling no matter *what* you did." 

"But..." 

Treville grins *exactly* like the arsehole he is. "Son." 

"I'm wary of that smile, sir." 

"As you should be, but -- son." 

"Hit me." 

"*Why* wouldn't I love -- and do my best to *advance* -- the horses who had the exact same personality *I* did?" 

Porthos stares at him. 

Treville waggles his eyebrows and lolls his tongue -- 

Porthos smacks the back of his head again -- 

And Treville yips helpless laughter, oh -- again and *again* -- "Oh, son, that's -- that's bloody wonderful --" 

"I promised myself I wouldn't *do* that again --" 

"Why *not*?" 

"Why are you the *Captain*?" 

"Because Laurent *wanted* me to be --" 

"You're not -- you're so -- you're --" 

"An arsehole?" 

"*Yes*, and --" Porthos snorts hard and smacks him again -- 

Treville snickers helplessly -- 

"Are you *like* this with Athos? Does he -- does he get to see the real you?" 

Treville -- takes a breath. 

"Oh. He doesn't?" 

"I -- not at the garrison. Not *enough*." Treville shakes his head. "I miss being his *Uncle* Treville." 

"*Uncle* Treville gets to be more honest?" 

"*Uncle* Treville gets to be -- *I* get to be -- honest full *stop*, son." 

Porthos blinks -- 

Stares at him -- 

Lowers his chin and stares *more* -- 

"Hmm. I *sense* that something about that seemed... odd..." 

"You were *fucking* his *father*, sir --" 

"I *am* fucking his father, son -- well. He's fucking *me* --" 

"I." 

"I'm fucking his *mother* --" 

"You." 

"Whenever possible; she's gorgeous and witty and brilliant, a truly wonderful --" 

"So you *haven't* given up on women entirely?" 

"I..." 

Porthos raises his eyebrows. "Hard question?" 

"Not really. Laurent, Marie-Angelique, Kitos, Reynard, Jason, and -- my mate. My beautiful --" Treville shivers. "They are -- and were, and will always *be* -- my *pack*, son." 

"*Oh*." 

"Yes?" 

"No, I -- no, that makes sense, sir. I uh -- I do know a *little* about shifters." 

Treville rumbles more. "You were educated *well*." 

"That's right, sir. My mum and her friends wouldn't have it any other way." 

"I like *her*." 

Porthos grins and ducks his head. "I miss her all the time. She was..." He *shakes* his head. "She took care of me right and proper." 

Treville cups Porthos's shoulder with his free hand. "You haven't gotten nearly enough of that since you lost her, I'd wager." 

"I -- don't --" 

"Shh, just this: I'd *know* your mother took care of you *exactly* the way a child *ought* to be taken care of just by *looking* at you, son. You don't have to say a word about it -- though I want you to." 

"Oh. Yeah?" 

"Mm," Treville says, and squeezes Porthos's shoulder firmly. "You're a *loving* young man. And all sorts of young people *can* give their love to the people they *want* to give their love to --" 

"Right, yeah --" 

"But they hit a wall, son. Sooner or later." 

"What... what?" 

"They hit. A wall," Treville says, and looks up into Porthos's frowning face. "They reach a point where one more sad story -- just one -- makes them think -- *helplessly* and *reflexively* -- that maybe the person deserved their troubles. They reach a point where *fatigue* sets in -- but not just any fatigue. It's not the kind that wearies the muscles and puts you to sleep. It's the kind that puts just *enough* spring in a man's step that he *can* step over a starving child in the gutter --" 

"I -- fuck -- stop --" 

"I'll stop, son. But... I know you've seen it." 

Porthos frowns and says nothing, looking away. 

"I know you've *seen* it, and I know that it has, specifically, hurt *you*. Even when *you* could do something to help the person your *mate* was too *fatigued* to help --" 

"Fuck -- *yes*, all right?" And *Porthos* growls, and -- 

It's interestingly flat. 

*Intriguingly* flat. Treville's ears are twitching just a little, and -- 

And Porthos is still not actually an earth-mage. Though it's increasingly probable that he has earth-mages in his *close* family. Questions for later. For now -- "Your friends -- the family you *made* for yourself in the Court, and they *were* your family, weren't they?" 

"Yes, they *were*. I -- Mum always said that a friend wasn't worth *anything* unless they were also your family --" 

"That's *right*, son, and -- it's not that you should question your family. It's not that you should question anything *about* them. I don't doubt that they're wonderful *people* --" 

"Most. Most of them are dead now," Porthos says, in a small, *small* voice -- 

"Oh -- son," Treville says, and strokes up to the back of Porthos's neck -- 

Squeezes gently -- 

*Gently* -- 

Porthos shudders. "There aren't -- words for this. I already know that." 

"No, there aren't. But there's warmth in the dark. Comfort. I -- noise to drown out the screaming --" 

"You've *already* seduced me, sir --" 

"I'm not talking about that, son." 

Porthos frowns in honest confusion, and -- 

And Treville's heart hurts. "Let me take you home, mm?" 

"Sir --" 

"Let me *hold* you -- and we'll just keep talking, all right?" 

Porthos looks at him like he's mad. 

It... Treville smiles ruefully. "I'm *exactly* as mad as you think I am, son --" 

"I *know* --" 

"But I'm not *wrong* -- all the time --" 

Porthos snorts with what sounds like a great *deal* of pain -- 

"Porthos --" 

"What..." Porthos stops, right there, by the side of the road, frowning thunderously. 

Treville stops, as well, taking a moment to murmur to Lune before coming back to pet and stroke Porthos just a little -- 

"You're -- really good at that." 

"Thank you --" 

"Tell me -- what you want to say about my friends. My family." 

Ah. 

"You -- you *don't* think they were bad people, but..." Porthos frowns even harder for long moments. 

Treville rumbles softly, soothingly -- 

Cups the back of Porthos's neck again -- 

Doesn't *lick* him -- yet -- 

"Please tell me, sir," Porthos says, and his voice is small again. 

"All right, son. Here it is -- but I warn you that it's not going to make you happy. Ready?" 

Porthos takes a *steadying* breath, just like the brave young soldier he is, and nods once. 

"Good boy. Just this: I don't know your parents. I don't know who they were. I never *met* them. But -- I've a fair idea of what they were *about*, because I know someone who *also* came up hard, and poor, and hungry, and desperate, and all those things that *can* harden the heart of a man -- or just harden the heart of a man *sometimes*." 

Porthos closes his mouth and nods. "This other bloke, though... he's like me. He's not -- he's soft-hearted." 

"That's right, son. *All* the time. *Just* like you. He had a *magnificently* huge family when he was coming up, and it was his *responsibility* to care for *all* of them," Treville says, and raises his eyebrows just a little. 

"I... even when *he* was -- young." 

"That's right, son. See, it wasn't that his *parents* were bad people, or lazy, or anything *like* that --"

"No, they were working hard. They -- they were maybe bringing in what little money they could?" 

Treville hums. "Exactly so. One little hardscrabble farm, poor soil..." He shakes his head. "Honoré -- and that's what Kitos was called then -- had to learn the woods to support his family. He became one of the best damned poachers this country has ever *seen* --" 

Porthos *coughs* -- 

"Make a *point* of pulling him for your woodcraft lessons, son. But I was saying..." Treville licks his lips. "He worked hard, every day. And when the woods couldn't support his family, he went to the towns. And when the towns couldn't support them, he enlisted -- but *earning* was never more important --" 

"Than -- than caring," Porthos says, and licks his lips. "Than *taking* care, and making sure that *that* one is actually eating the food you brought in, and *that* one is tucked under the blanket, because they always kick out, and -- and there's so bloody *much* --" 

"That's *right*, there is. And it drove him spare -- but it drove him even more spare --" 

"To be -- without it," Porthos says, and stares at him wonderingly. "I -- once he'd enlisted." He frowns. "He took care of you. All of you. Right?" 

Treville nods. "And we were... bemused. To say the least. We teased him bloody for it. Made him *work* for it." 

Porthos winces -- 

"*Exactly*, son. Happily? We damned well grew out of that. You never say no to need, do you?" 

"*No*, sir. I -- I --" 

"You *never* say no to need, and *Honoré* needed to take care of us... because, once upon a time, if a day went by when Honoré *wasn't* taking care of absolutely everyone --" 

"Someone -- someone could've died." 

Treville inclines his head. "Your friends, your family, son..." He shakes his head. "*You* gave them the *luxury* of not having that ache in their souls, son. That *fire* in their *hearts*." 

"I." Porthos swallows and takes a shuddering breath -- 

Another -- 

Treville rumbles and pets him more. Sniffs and smells thoughtfulness, *subdued* hunger -- 

Worry that seems *ancient* -- but Treville has smelled that worry on Kitos all the time. Some part of Porthos is getting just a *little* twisted up in his head -- "You haven't failed anyone, son." 

Porthos grunts -- 

"There isn't anyone you need care for in this moment." 

"Don't -- *don't* --" 

"You haven't *failed* anyone." 

Porthos gives him a wounded look, and that... 

Treville sighs a little. "That's a little too much right now. All right, son --" 

"I -- I'm sorry --" 

"Shh." 

"No -- I mean -- I'll do better --" 

"This isn't a test and you're not failing it." 

"*Sir* --" 

"Try an exercise with me, son," Treville says, deliberately moving his hand back to Porthos's shoulder and squeezing with the Captain's firmness. 

Porthos grunts, eyes widening -- and then he stands straight and nods. "Sir." 

"Good boy. You're whiling away the hours with a beautiful young man whom you'd dearly love to start a *long*-term relationship with, just as soon as *he* is ready for *you* --" 

"Oh --" 

"Shh." 

Porthos swallows -- "Yes, sir." 

"Good boy," Treville says. "You're enjoying absolutely everything about the young man's company. You want him. Increasingly, you find that you *need* him -- and need his happiness." 

Porthos shivers -- and his eyes are wide again. 

Treville smiles. "You need, oh... absolutely everything he's *shown* you about himself, son. And you need everything he's hiding, too." 

"Sir..." 

"Stay with me, son. I know you know how this feels." 

"I -- I do --"

"Then stay with me," Treville says, and squeezes Porthos's shoulder firmly again. 

Porthos swallows again and nods. 

"My good boy. Now. It comes to your attention that the young man has a wounded heart. An *aching* heart, for one reason or another. For *several* reasons, you're sure, but there's a *lot* of information you're missing...?" 

"I -- I don't stay ignorant for *long*, sir," Porthos says, blushing hard. 

"No?"

"No, sir. I find out everything I *can* find out. I -- I make sure he knows I *need* to know him, need to know everything..." Porthos licks his lips and blushes even harder. 

"Go on, son. You're on the right track." 

"Sir --" 

"Don't. Stop." 

"Fuck -- I make sure he knows that he's wanted, that I'm not just pumping him for information, that I'm not just -- some nosy *arsehole*. I make sure I know what's going *on*, yeah, but I keep things going in other ways, keep the *conversation* going in other ways --" 

Treville rumbles and moves his hand back to Porthos's nape. "You make sure he knows he's valuable. Don't you." 

"Please -- I mean --" 

"You make sure he knows he's..." Treville flares his nostrils and rumbles more. "You make sure he knows *exactly* how much he's *hungered* for, just as he is." 

"Please, sir..." And Porthos's eyes are wide and young and full and -- worried. *This* worry, though -- it's not so ancient. 

Treville nods. "Tell me, son. The exercise is done." 

Porthos swallows and nods back. "You're making me -- uh. It'd be better, in some ways, if you'd *stop* seducing me." 

Treville raises an eyebrow -- but. "I'm... coming on too strong, son?" 

"I -- don't want to say that." 

"But it's true...? It's all *right* if it is. You're not exactly *accustomed* to human-shaped dogs with pashes for you..." 

"To." Porthos *looks* at him. 

Treville lolls his tongue --

But Porthos doesn't smack him, or cuff him, or even laugh. He just looks at Treville *thoughtfully*. 

Treville puts his tongue away -- 

"You're going to -- cover this." 

"Son?" 

Porthos's gesture encompasses the two of them. "It *actually* bothers you -- *hurts* you -- that I'm not immediately accepting..." 

"Son --" 

"But of course it would bother me, too. *Hurt* me, too." And Porthos smiles ruefully. 

"You don't *have* to --" 

"I know. I actually do know." 

Treville stops -- and raises an eyebrow. 

"I know, sir. And -- I need *you* to know that *you* don't have to pretend to just be... I don't know. You don't have to joke around like an arsehole when you don't *want* to." 

Treville *thinks* about pointing out that he's *always* an arsehole -- but.

That's not the sort of thing they're talking about in this moment. 

He nods, instead, and steps closer. Just a little. 

Porthos flares *his* nostrils -- and stands his ground. So *brave* -- 

"What would you like from me, son? Mm? How much *is* too much -- and how much is just enough?" 

Porthos pants -- and licks his lips. "Because I can have it?"

"Yes," Treville says, letting it be just as bald and *true* as it is.

"I -- don't want to ask the next question," Porthos says, and laughs breathlessly. 

Treville hums. "No...?" 

"*No*, sir!" 

Treville lolls his tongue for a *moment*. "Ask it *anyway*, son." 

"Aww -- bloody *fine*," Porthos says, and snorts. "*Why* am I this -- this *important* to you? What *exactly* have I said or done that's made me this good a *prospect*?" And he's smiling -- laughing under his *breath* -- but there's honest need in his beautiful eyes. 

"You're not going to let me get away with saying 'everything' --" 

"No, I'm sodding well *not* --" 

"Even though there hasn't been a single bloody thing you've said *or* done since the moment we *met* that's done *less* than commend you to me --" 

"You wanted me for *Athos*!" 

"I *wanted* you for my *pack*," Treville says, and -- owns it. Takes it and admits it and keeps it -- *owns* it. 

They're *both* breathing too hard, and Lune is tugging at the lead in a thankfully-desultory attempt to get the hell away from the two loudmouths -- 

He calms her *gently* -- 

And Porthos nods and takes another shuddering breath. "You didn't know that. Before. You didn't know that you wanted me -- to be that." 

"Not with *enough* of myself, son. I know it now, though." 

"And you're sure of it? *Really*?" 

"I don't make mistakes about things like this, son," Treville says, and strokes Porthos's cheek with his gloved thumb. 

Porthos shivers. "You don't -- you need time to *think*, sir." 

And you don't. But he doesn't have to be *that* kind of arsehole. "Son... I've given myself nearly a *year* to think about you." 

"But --" 

"Nearly a year with your scents, your humour, your intelligence, your open-mindedness --" 

"Oh -- shit." 

"Too much?" 

"I." Porthos frowns. "You're sounding like..." 

"Yes?" 

"D'you feel like you've taken too *much* time with me, sir?"

"Yes," Treville says, and just leaves it there. 

Porthos stares at him for a long moment -- 

His scents *rise* -- 

And then he *ruthlessly* tamps himself down, nods *thoughtfully*, and gestures to the next intersection. 

"Yes, son?" 

"The hostler's by my rooms -- uh. Well, he's right. He's close." 

"Right you are," Treville says, and they walk -- in silence for the first hundred yards or so, but then -- 

"I um. I've never been one to muck about with relationships, either," Porthos says quietly. His voice isn't *small*, but it *is* subdued. 

Treville hums. "You never did strike me as the sort who *would*, son." 

Porthos smiles for that. "Even though I've taken an *unconscionably* long time to haul your godson's ashes, sir?" 

Treville coughs -- 

Porthos smiles *meanly* -- 

"You're an arsehole, son." 

"That I am, sir." 

"Also, you've taken a nigh-*unforgivably* long time to haul Athos's ashes --" 

Porthos *snorts* -- 

"-- and we're all *very* disappointed in you --" 

"*Oi*. Who's bloody *we*?" 

"Me, Kitos, Reynard --" 

"Oh fuck." 

"You haven't actually *met* Laurent or Marie-Angelique, yet, but they're disappointed, too --" 

"*Are* they?" 

And -- bless him -- Porthos actually smells a little worried again. "Son. It is not *actually* your responsibility to relieve our Athos of his crippling virginity --" 

Porthos coughs hard -- "No -- but --" 

"I'm only teasing, son," Treville says, and smiles gently. "The fact that we all *like* you a great *deal* impresses upon you not one whit of responsibility to do anything *for* us." 

"I --" 

"Do you *understand*." 

"Sir." 

"*Son* --" 

"*Sir*. Not ten bloody minutes ago you were telling me that you wanted me to be a *part* of your *pack*." 

"*Yes*, and --" 

Porthos *pins* him with a look. "*What* part of that translates to me not having to *be a part of the bloody pack*?"

Treville stops -- and takes a breath. 

"*Thank* you --" 

"This, son --" 

"*Sir* --" 

"*This*: Nothing you don't want. Nothing you don't crave. Nothing that doesn't fire your imagination and fill you with love and hope and *joy*." 

Porthos blinks at him. 

"That's what I want for you, son. Every day." 

Porthos licks his lips -- 

And shivers all *over* -- 

And nods. "Right." 

"Yes?" 

"Yeah." 

"Good --" 

"I'd like to know..." 

"Mm?" 

"Are your packmates as mad as you? I mean -- in the same ways?"

"I'd say they're definitely as mad as I am, son, though not *always* in the same ways. Kitos and Reynard have always been a bit more cautious with the *romantic* love in their hearts --" 

"That's not bloody *difficult*, sir," Porthos says, and laughs hard -- 

Treville snickers with him. "You're not *wrong*, son, but --" 

"But *what*?" 

"*But*? *Both* of them would say that they have *suffered* for being cautious with their hearts -- and that they trust *me* to pick people for the pack far more than they trust their own hesitation." 

Porthos blinks -- "Because of the, you know, witchcraft?" 

"Both of them would say yes -- to you. Both of them would have more in-depth answers *for* you once they got to know you better... and felt less cautious," Treville says, and grins. 

Porthos snorts again. "*Right*. And Athos's parents?" 

"Marie-Angelique would, if she had her druthers, take me out *hunting* for new people to add to the pack. She trusts my taste --" 

"And. Maybe she's a little lonely? It's got to be hard for her, with most of you away all the time." 

Oh, Porthos... "It's hard for us without *her*, son. Without her and *Laurent*. Packs shouldn't be separated." 

"No, sir. I --" And Porthos licks his lips. "And the former Captain... well, I already know you love him madly --" 

"Madly is a good word for it. He's owned me since I was *fourteen*." 

"Uh. 'Owned' you?" 

Treville grins. "Have you never known a man like that, son? A man who could *effortlessly* put you on your knees and *keep* you there -- without one single blessed hint of a clue that he was doing it?" 

And *that*... is the most *secretive* smile Treville has ever *seen* on Porthos's face. 

Treville didn't think Porthos's face *worked* that way. 

It -- 

No. "Son...?" 

"I... heh." And Porthos grins down at him. "*One* of us hasn't been putting all that *much* thought into the question of just why it was so easy for me to recognize your hands tonight, sir." 

Treville blinks -- 

"Your big, pale, *brutally*-scarred-up, rough-callused... mm." 

Treville *regroups* -- 

"And they really are -- I mean, you're not a *small* man, but they're big even for your size."

Well. 

"And you *use* those hands on the men. Always clapping our shoulders and *gripping* us and giving us friendly little *strokes* --" 

"Porthos." 

"A man can get *right* fixated, is what I'm saying." 

"I..." 

"Especially when you're also using that hard, steely *gaze* thing you do --" 

"*Fuck* --" 

Porthos snickers. "Is it too *much* for you, sir? Should I walk it *back* a little bit?"

"Right, first off, you're going to get fucked *blind* one of these nights --" 

"And knotted?" 

"We're doing that in my *office*, son, because *one* of us likes the trappings of *authority* just that much --" 

Porthos *wheezes* laughter -- 

"Which is not to say that I *don't* --" 

"I know you do! You probably had the former Captain *flog* you in that office!" 

"Only rarely when the sun was up. *Rarely* --" 

Porthos *guffaws* -- 

And Treville -- aches. In many different ways at once. This -- 

He needs to shut his *teeth* on this -- 

He needs to not be so -- 

"Oh -- fuck -- sir? What's wrong?" 

He needs to be honest. "I want... so much of you, son..." 

"I *know* --" 

"I want you in my *pack* --" 

"Yeah, and I -- I don't know --" 

"If. If you let me adopt you... we can live together." 

Porthos stops -- dead. 

Treville winces. "We can -- we can pretend I didn't just say that --" 

"No, we bloody *can't*!" 

"I didn't want to *lie* to you about what I was thinking --" 

"Are you honestly -- I've made you want -- but." Porthos frowns and just -- stops. Again.

Treville nods. "I know it's too much. I *know* it is." 

"How many men have you offered it to before, sir? How many boys?" 

Treville blinks. "None." 

Porthos raises an eyebrow -- lowers it. "You haven't been whoring in years." 

"Not -- that's not the reason --" 

"You're pent *up* --" 

"That isn't --" 

"Sir..." And Porthos frowns and shakes his head. 

Treville -- doesn't swallow his wince. He nods. "Son... only this: Let us spend time together. Let us *speak*. Let me..." 

"Seduce me?" 

Treville shivers. "It's true that I probably won't be able to *keep* myself from -- but I won't bring *this* up. I won't -- I *can* keep myself from *oppressing* you with myself, son." 

Porthos looks at him *hard* -- and then something cracks, just a little, behind his face and he squeezes his eyes shut. 

Treville can't -- he rumbles and pets, soothes as best as he *can* -- 

Tugs Porthos's head down to his shoulder and strokes -- 

Strokes *firmly* -- 

"Oh -- *fuck*, sir --" 

"Shh, son, it's all right --" 

"I just -- I want to *take* your comfort --"

"I want to give it to you, son. I want you to have it... all the time." 

"I know what's *behind* that want now, sir!" 

"I --" 

"I know --" Porthos *growls* again, flat and hungry and *animal* -- 

He pulls *back* while Treville's still *coping* with his *ears* twitching -- 

He -- 

"Son --" 

"I know what you *want*!" 

Treville croons an apology before he can stop himself -- 

Porthos blinks rapidly and *studies* him, licking his lips -- 

"I -- I apologize. That was --" 

"The dog in you. The dog in you wanting to... apologize? Speak to me?" 

Treville *rumbles* helplessly --

"Oh --"

"Every part of me wants to know you, son. Every part. And -- yes. That was both me *and* the dog in me apologizing for being too much for you --" 

"You... spend a lot of time tamping that down." 

Treville blinks, but -- "Yes, son, I do. Why --" 

"You spend a lot of time... pretending to be more human than you are. Right?" 

"I spend a lot of time pretending to be human full *stop*, son. I --" 

"Right, yeah. And -- dogs don't piss about. Not with *emotions*. Not with people they *like*."

Treville whuffs out a breath -- "Don't -- don't do this, son. Don't rush yourself for me --" 

"I'm *not*. I *won't*, sir," Porthos says, and he smells resolved, *firm*. "I just won't bloody expect *you* to act like -- like a human." 

"*Son*. I can --" 

"I don't *want* you to be *anything* but *honest* with me, sir," Porthos says, and -- looms a little. "That's what I've always wanted from you. That's what you've always *given* to me -- to *all* of us. That's." He licks his lips and smiles ruefully. "I'd *never* seen any *authority* figure like you before, sir. They were all about taking their little bit of power and lording it over everyone they could, you know?" And Porthos searches him a little. 

Treville growls. "When you give *most* men *any* power they have no bloody idea what to *do* with it, son --" 

"*That*. They just -- they just blunder around with it and get -- get all -- I don't know. Or, no, I *do* know, because you see it bloody *everywhere* --"

"Men -- and women -- get *drunk* with power and forget that it must be *earned* -- and wielded *carefully* once it has been *given*," Treville says, and -- he's teaching even though he doesn't bloody *have* to -- 

And Porthos is licking his lips and studying him again. 

Treville winces. "Son, I'm sorry, I don't mean to lecture you --" 

"I love your lectures, sir." 

Treville blinks. 

Porthos smiles wryly. "I love to listen to you *talk*, sir. You're -- all the men said it, you know. That, before you were bumped up to Captain, you were the *best* and the most *diligent* of the lieutenants when it came to teaching the recruits -- and everyone else!" 

"I --" 

"That you would get to the garrison *ludicrously* early in the morning, even when *everyone* knew you'd been carousing all *over* Paris the night before --" 

"That's just --" 

"That you'd stay *late* to help everyone who *needed* help, and that you'd be gentle and easy and *perfect* about it, even when you were also being bloody *relentless*," Porthos says, and *looks* at him. 

Treville -- blushes. 

"'s what I *thought*," Porthos says, and grins at him, broad and beautiful, and so -- 

So -- 

Treville growls and -- can't. 

"Son -- have you * wanted* my teaching?" 

"I just bloody *said* --" 

"No. Have you wanted *my* teaching. My hands on you as I help perfect your fencing. My voice in your ear with tips and tricks and *advice* about your shooting. Hours of my time at *your* side --" 

"Shit --" 

"Have you *wanted* it?" 

Porthos pants -- and smiles ruefully. "Yeah, sir." 

"You'll have it." 

"You bloody *can't* --" 

"*Don't* tell me what I can and can't do when it comes to the people I love, son." 

Porthos grunts and flushes hot in the moonlight. "Uh." 

Treville raises an eyebrow. "Yes, son?" 

"No, uh. You just. You hadn't actually -- said it. Before that moment," Porthos says, and blinks... for a little while. 

Treville growls. "That's unconscionable, son. A man like you should always, *always* know *exactly* how much, how deeply, how *powerfully* he is loved..." 

"Oh, fuck, you're using that -- voice --" 

"Which voice. Mm?" 

"That -- that little -- that dangerous voice. That sodding -- uh -- sir --" 

"This voice is affecting for you. I see -- and smell," Treville says, and flares his nostrils -- mostly for effect. He knows *precisely* how aroused he's making Porthos with this. "Should I use it all the time, son...?" 

"Uhh..." 

"Should I apply... just a little *force* to our relationship...?" 

"*Shit* --" 

"That sounds like --" 

"No -- don't --" 

"Don't *what*, son." 

"*Fuck*, sir, I --" And *Porthos* steps back -- and gives himself a shake. 

"Porthos." 

"I don't -- I don't want --" 

"I think we've *established* that you *do* want --" 

"I want you to be *yourself*, sir!" And that... was vehement enough to carry. 

To make Lune toss her *head* -- 

Treville stops -- and takes a breath. There's panic threading through Porthos's scents. "You believe... that I wasn't being myself?" 

"Please, sir --" 

"Shh." 

"Sir --" 

"Shh, it's all right, son. Let's -- talk this out, mm?" 

"Uh. Talk...?" 

Treville raises his hands and gestures for peace. "Just talk, son. We've got to get Lune squared away anyway, mm?" 

Porthos takes a shuddering breath -- "Right, I -- right." 

They walk. 

They walk in *silence* -- 

No, *Treville* should talk. "I won't run you over like a carter in the street, son." 

Porthos snorts hard. 

"That didn't ring true?" 

"Sir..." 

"Mm? Tell me." 

Porthos *looks* at him -- and then nods slowly. "Right. You *don't* actually know this. I don't know why I'm surprised." 

Treville frowns. "Know what, son?" 

"Sir, you have the ability to run a man down like --" Porthos shakes his head. "Just picture the kind of cart that would need about *six* of Lieutenant Kitos's horses in front of it in order for it to *get* anywhere --" 

Treville *coughs* -- 

"That, sir. *That*. You run us *all* down like that. But you do it so gently, so easily, so *effortlessly*, that you make us *thank you for the bloody privilege* while we're still trying to figure *out* how to pick ourselves up out of the *wheel* ruts." 

"I -- hm." 

"No? That doesn't sound familiar? *Captain*?" 

Treville *winces* -- "I -- don't want to be that to you." 

"What the bloody hell *do* you want to be to -- oh. Oh." 

Shit -- "Don't think about that. I apologize --" 

"I can't *help* but --" 

"I *apologize*." 

"Right, you tell *me* what a safe topic is, sir, because --" 

"What." 

"Mm?" 

Treville licks his lips and tries to *think* --

Tries very -- 

He *tries* -- 

"This is an honestly hard question for --" 

"Son --" 

"Which should've been *obvious*, because you can't even stop calling me 'son' --" 

*Shit* -- "Do you. Want me to --" 

"Bloody *no*! I love it!" 

Treville takes a *breath* -- 

And Porthos laughs hard. Just -- 

He laughs for a while. 

He laughs... and it's just as beautiful, just as *big* -- 

Treville *and* the dog drink it in. 

Gradually, the laughter tapers off, but Porthos is still smiling when he says, "You call the other men 'son' sometimes." 

"Yes. I'm. I've always been a paternal sort of man." 

"Yeah? Even before... I mean, I don't want to stomp all over --" 

"Son, I would *dearly* love to talk to you about absolutely everything." 

"Uh. Everything?" 

"Everything. You're a wonderful conversationalist, along with every *other* wonderful thing about you --" 

"Right, right -- uh. All right, I'm asking --" 

"Even before I met my mate, I was... hm..." Treville smiles ruefully. "I tended to parent every last whore, recruit, farmboy, blacksmith's apprentice, baker's boy, and et cetera, and *et cetera* who would *let* me do it, son." 

Porthos gives him a *quirked* look. 

Treville laughs softly. "Ask." 

"Even when you were, you know... I mean, you said you were young when you met your mate --" 

"I was just about your age, son. And, from the time I *started* going with young boys -- just before I turned seventeen, when Honoré *whalloped* me until I admitted that I didn't want to fuck the female whores who followed our regiment --" 

"Uh. Wait --" 

"Mm? Ah. I've always been able to get it *up* for women -- though never, ever girls --" 

"No? I mean -- keep going, please --" 

"No, son. I've a bit of a... stutter when it comes to the prospect of making love to young *girls*, a stutter I never had for boys --" 

"Right, right, I've seen that before. You *were* a randy boy once upon a time. It doesn't seem that weird or deviant --" 

"I was a randy boy who *desperately* wanted to get his ashes hauled by any number of *adults* -- but that's another conversation." 

"Is it?" 

Treville hums and thinks of his *father* -- 

Strokes the beard he'd *worked* to perfect as a young man, worked to *duplicate* -- and then never, ever, *ever* changed -- 

"*That* looks like... I don't know. *Warmly* deviant thoughts," Porthos says, and his smile is inviting. So -- 

"Oh, son, I will *absolutely* share. You *ought* to know." 

"All right --" 

"But I'd like to answer *all* your questions." 

Porthos gives him a *wondering* look for that. A curious and open and *warm* -- 

"Son...?" 

"No, I... I'm thinking about all the times I sold *my* arse when I was a boy, you know, before I learned to sharp well --" 

Treville grunts before he can stop himself -- 

And Porthos snorts. "Did you just have a *moment*, sir?" 

"I..." 

"Did you just -- you would've lost your little deviant's mind for me back then, wouldn't you have." 

Treville thinks about -- no, there's no question. "Son, I almost certainly would've thrown you over the back of my horse and *dragged* you home." 

Porthos *guffaws* again. 

"Now, the question is --" 

"What bloody *question*?" 

"Would you have *let* me?" 

"*No*!" 

Treville sighs sadly. "I'll just put away my dreams of time travel, then --" 

Porthos smacks the back of his head -- 

And Treville grins and winks. 

"You're an *arse*, sir --" 

"*Very* true --" 

" -- and." 

"Mm?" 

"I had *family* to care for back then, sir! You couldn't have just asked me to *desert* them!"

Treville *blinks* -- 

"Yeah, like *that* --" 

"Son, do you *honestly* believe I *would've* asked for that?" 

*Porthos* blinks -- 

Licks his *lips* -- 

And blushes. "Uh. Well. No, actually..." 

"All *right*, then --" 

"What I *think*... is that there are a *lot* of stableboys, and powder boys, and kitchen boys, and every-bloody-thing *else* at the garrison who have made me wonder what the bloody hell they were up to on the streets *before* they got dragged back to the garrison." 

"But you weren't wondering all that *much*, now were you." 

"No, I bloody --" Porthos snorts again -- quieter, this time, as they're walking into the hostler. "I have no idea why I thought that all of them -- or, at least, *most* of them -- had made it there *themselves*."

Treville hums. "Because *you* did, son. Because you were bold enough, brave enough, strong enough, smart enough --" 

"*Lucky* enough," Porthos says, and glares at him *hard* -- 

"I'll take that, son. So long as you take the rest." 

"I --" 

"Because we *both* know how many people you *tried* to tug out of the gutter *with* you --" 

"Stop. Just -- I can't. Not that," Porthos says, and turns away. 

Treville frowns -- no. "All right, son. I'll leave that --" 

Porthos laughs and *looks* at him, but doesn't say a word before the stableboys join them to flirt with Porthos and ask for the instructions for Lune's care. 

He didn't *have* to say a word -- the skepticism rolled off that look in waves. 

So -- 

Treville has to do at least a *little* better here. He has to *respect* the boundaries Porthos sets -- lest he risks chasing Porthos *away*. 

He has to be a *reasonable* man. 

And he *can* do that -- 

"What are you thinking on," Porthos says under his breath as they're walking back out into the night. 

"How I might make you less skeptical about my ability to *respect* your needs, son." 

"I." Porthos frowns. 

Treville keeps his mouth *shut* -- 

Porthos frowns *harder* -- 

Treville doesn't *touch* -- 

Porthos *growls* -- "Right, no, this doesn't work --" 

"What doesn't --" 

"Sir, you're not -- I can bloody *feel* you holding back!" 

"I. Were either or both of your parents *witches*, son?" 

"What? Uh. Yeah, actually. My mum. An earth-witch, like you. I never knew my father. Why are you...?" 

Treville laughs helplessly. 

"I mean, my mum's friends, after she died, they always said that I'd grow into an earth-witch myself, but --" 

"What --" 

"-- figured they had to be wrong about *something* --" 

"They..." 

"Mm?" And Porthos is walking beside him easily. Curious, open, casual, ready, open-*minded*. 

There's nothing *about* this conversation that's raising *his* hackles, but -- 

But.


	3. In my fantasy Steam library, Dream Daddy II: Electric Dadaloo has Treville as a romance option.

Treville licks his lips. "Son..." 

"Yes, sir? What's wrong?" 

"I have to ask you... some potentially-painful questions." 

Porthos blinks at him -- and frowns. "About...?" 

"About --" 

"No, I -- just ask, sir. It's not like you're holding back from *me*." And he gives Treville a pointed look. He -- 

Treville breathes a laugh. "Oh, son, I never will. I..." 

"*Ask*." 

"All right. *Exactly* how old are you?" 

Porthos frowns. "Uh. I don't... I don't know that, sir. I forgot my birthday... pretty soon after I lost my mum." 

"Oh... son. You were young." 

"I know I was five then. It was. It was um. Summer. Yejide -- the death-witch mum was closest to -- took care of me, as much as she could." 

Treville swallows and tries not to -- 

Tries not to *helplessly* put the pieces together, because it *could* all be coincidence -- 

He doesn't bloody *know* how Porthos's mother wound up in the Court of Miracles -- 

He doesn't know how she *died* -- 

He doesn't know -- 

"Sir? You're breathing kind of --" 

"My mate. My Amina-love --" 

"Your -- uh. Are you saying -- you can't be -- no."

"My *Amina-love* took our son -- our *unnamed*, twenty-seven-day-old son --" 

"Fuck --" 

"-- and what belongings she could carry --" 

"Sir --" 

"And *ran*, son. She -- she *disappeared* --" 

"I can't -- you can't -- *why* did she run? Why did she *leave* you?" And Porthos is -- pleading. He's --

"She was being chased, son. She was being *hunted*. And we -- her *pack* -- were out of the country, on an action in Spain." 

Porthos -- is giving him a wounded look. A *confused* look. 

Treville nods and *hurts*. Just -- he steps close, into Porthos's space, and cups his shoulder with one hand and the back of his neck with the other -- 

"Sir --" 

"She wasn't able to tell you any of this." 

"I -- she --" Porthos growls. "She *never* told me any personal stories, sir! I could *see* it *hurting* her -- hurting her bloody *physically* -- when she *tried*! After she was gone, Yejide told me something about her making a 'bad bargain' with some *other* bloody death-witch, but I had no sodding *idea* -- what *happened*?" 

"You have to understand, son -- I pieced most of this together... after. After a death-witch who was *probably* your Yejide led me to your mother's body --" 

"Bloody -- *what*? She never --" 

"Son. Your mother's guardian Ife -- she was one of the three witches who bound us and *made* us shifters -- and I had done a lot of research on the problem by then. We knew that the death-mage who had bargained your mother's life away had been... very careful. Very *exact* --"

"What does that bloody *mean*?" 

"It was dangerous to share information about you, and about Amina, and about Amina's *past*. Dangerous for *your* life, and health, and *soul*." 

"I --" 

"That death-mage -- and his name *was* Guillou, and an ally and I *eventually* tracked him down and did for him --" 

"*Shit* --" 

"He wanted to enslave you, son. There are few things more powerful, few currencies more *valuable*, than the soul of an innocent and virginal child --" 

Porthos makes a nauseated sound -- and then grunts. "Did he -- had he enslaved *Mum*?" 

"He'd taken pieces of her spirit, yes --" 

"*No* --" 

"But we damned well took them *back*, son. And *Guillou's* spirit will scream and *bleed* in my rapier for as close to the next thousand years as I can *manage*." 

Porthos grunts again and blinks rapidly -- 

Treville pets him and rumbles as soothingly as he can -- 

He just -- he pets him. 

He pets his *son* -- 

Finally, his *son*, and why couldn't he *feel* him? Why can't Porthos feel *him*? Is there -- but. 

Treville *reaches* for his boy, reaches for the power he *knows* must be there, must be *hidden* -- 

Porthos groans and *stiffens* -- "Sir -- *sir* -- what are you --" 

"Guillou *imprisoned* your power, son," Treville says, and he's bloody *chewing* out the words, but -- "I'm *freeing* it." 

Porthos shudders and *croons* -- "Fuck -- I -- I -- you're so much, I can feel you --" 

"You're the blood in my *veins*," Treville says, and -- there -- 

Oh, there...

"My beautiful boy..." And Treville keeps one hand on the back of Porthos's neck, steadies him, *grounds* him, but he rests the other over his pounding heart. "It's all right, son. I'll guide you through all this. I'll teach you, train you..." Treville licks his lips. "I've dreamed of that..." 

Porthos flushes *deep* --

He's shivering and shaking his head -- 

His eyes are *wide* -- 

"Shh, shh, I -- I'll take *care* of you, son. I'll *always* take care of you --" 

"Sir..." 

That was more of a heartfelt *moan* than speech, but Treville can *understand* -- 

"You'd bloody well better be able to understand!" 

Treville coughs a laugh -- and helpless tears roll down his cheeks. "Oh, son, I." He licks his lips. "I wanted to say, before, that you *remind* me of my Amina-love." 

"I. What? I do?" 

"You *roast* me *exactly* the way she did, son," Treville says, and laughs ruefully. "She never let me get away with *anything* --" 

"*Good* --" 

"She also was *quite* fond of beating me when I misbehaved," Treville says, and lolls his tongue *just* a little...

"I." 

They can both see that stopping Porthos a little -- 

They can both *feel* Porthos *wanting* to demur...

"Bloody --" And then Porthos laughs explosively and swats him *hard*. "She was a *hammer*, sir." 

"That she was..." 

"She --" Porthos laughs even harder. "All the, you know, vendors were afraid of her. All the *criminals* were afraid of her!" 

"That's *right* --" 

"She would..." And Porthos licks his lips and very obviously looks into his memories -- and, just like that, he's sharing them: 

_Amina is right there, in a small and dingy courtyard where most of the largest items of trash have been cleared away to leave a space for children to play... or train._

_Amina is right *there*, tall and strong and a *little* thin, but not too thin, and she has two blades in her hands._

_One is sized for her large, dark, perfect hand -- but the other is very, very small._

_She holds that other out and raises her thick, lightly-arched eyebrows *expectantly*._

_Beautiful, so *beautiful*, so --_

_"Oh -- *oh*! For *me*, Maman?"_

_"*Yes*, sweet boy. It is time for you to *learn*," she says, and beckons Porthos close --_

_Porthos *runs* to her, chubby arms and legs *pumping* --_

_His hair is so big and wild --_

_His smile is so *bright* --_

_He *jumps* for the blade --_

_"*Easy*, sweet boy. The blade is sharp enough to slice through the good leather of your boots like soft butter!"_

_"I'll be care-ful!"_

_"You'll be *respectful* of your *weapon*. *That* is best of all," Amina says, and *presents* the blade hilt-first._

_"Yes, Maman! I will be re-spect-ful!" And Porthos takes the blade -- respectfully -- and examines it, turning it this way and that._

_If it hadn't been clear by the size, the obvious *quality* would mark it as --_

_"Maman..."_

_"Yes, sweet boy?"_

_"I think this is ex-pen-sive!"_

_And Amina -- laughs, deep and loud and *raucous*. So --_

_So --_

_She slaps her own hip and *grins*, bright and wide --_

_"Maman --"_

_"Do not *worry*, sweet boy!"_

_"But --"_

_"Sweet *boy*," Amina says, putting her fists on her hips and *looking* at Porthos. "Your mama has been saving for this for... let us just say that it's been a *long* time, mm?"_

_"Oh!"_

_"Yes? You feel better?"_

_"Yes, Maman, all right!"_

_Amina laughs again, low and much too *quiet*. There's a shadow in her eyes, this time._

_"Maman? What --"_

_"No, sweet boy. It is time to *train*," she says, and moves into --_

_Into the stance *Treville* had taught her when *he* was teaching her *more* ways to brutalize people --_

The memory cuts out suddenly, *shockingly* -- 

And they're surrounded by the sights and sounds of a Paris night, further from the Court than a *part* of Treville *wants* to be -- 

He wants to *find* that courtyard! He wants to *study* it as a man and *roll* in it as the dog -- 

He wants -- 

"Oh -- sir..." And Porthos licks his lips. "I can feel your memories, too, you know." 

"I --" 

"You've been... I know you *tracked* us --" 

"I *tried* to track you, son. The scents... would dissipate before I ever got to you." 

Porthos licks his lips again and frowns. "We were hidden." 

"There was... a veil between us. A *wall*." 

"And you can't bloody stand to have anything remotely *like* that -- not anymore. Not a story, not a... not anything. You know, you hadn't even known me for *five* minutes before you dropped your stern, Captain-ly act and started talking about your *father* and everything he *meant* to you. I *asked* the other men about that. Not one of them said *anything* about you talking about that."

Treville raises an eyebrow. "Son. Can *you* stand anything between us?" 

"I -- I could before --" 

"Could you? Or did you want to be *closer* to me. However you could *get* closer to me." And Treville raises his eyebrow higher. 

"Uh. Sir." 

"Hard question, son?" 

Porthos looks at him *incredulously* -- 

And that -- "All right, son, I understand that look --" 

"Oh, do you? I'm bloody *glad*, sir --" 

"Easy, son," Treville says, and *presses* on Porthos's sternum just a little. 

Porthos inhales sharply. "I -- right. But --" 

"*But*, the two of us have spent a goodly part of the evening seducing and *being* seduced --" 

"Right, but that was before we *knew* --" 

"But it was *not* before we knew -- with all of ourselves -- that we wanted to be *nothing* but honest with each other, son." 

Porthos frowns. "I... all right, fine, I can go with that. I can." 

"Yes?" 

"*Somehow*, you're not fucked up about the fact that you've been *gleefully* planning to *rail* your *son* --" 

"*Not* somehow, son." 

"You've got a reason for me, sir?" 

"Perhaps you can recall what I was trying *very* hard *not* to seduce you into... before we knew," Treville says, and lowers his chin. 

Porthos's jaw drops. 

Treville pats Porthos's chest gently -- 

Strokes the back of his neck -- 

Strokes *firmly* -- 

Porthos closes his mouth slowly and *bites* his lip. "This -- I can't *not* feel you." 

"I know, son." 

"I can't *not* feel how much you bloody *mean* it when you *call* me -- and you meant it just that bloody much before you knew. Didn't you." 

And Treville *honestly* thinks he's going to say something about it being different now, deeper, *more*, but what comes out of his mouth is a snarled -- "You're *mine*!" 

Porthos *grunts* -- and parts his lips, just like that. 

Treville growls. "You like the animal in me." 

Porthos coughs a laugh. "I like *dogs*, yeah --" 

"No, son. You *like* the *animal* in me," Treville says, walking Porthos back to the wall and moving his hand from his nape to the *front* of his throat -- 

"Oh -- shit..." 

Treville flares his nostrils -- and nods. "This is a desire for you. A fantasy." 

"*Sir* --" 

"Don't hide from what you want, son. Don't..." Treville rumbles. "It was *already* a fire in me to make sure you had every little thing you needed. What *exactly* do you think it is now? Mm?" 

"I want -- I need..." 

"Go on, son. *Tell* me." 

"Fuck --" 

"Tell me..." Treville licks his lips and pants, just once. "Tell me *all* about it." 

Porthos moans and *stares* into Treville's eyes, and his own eyes are wide. "Shit, sir, I need -- I need to *talk* more, and." He flushes pink under that beautiful brown skin. 

Treville licks his cheek -- 

"*Fuck* --" 

Treville pulls back enough for their eyes to meet. "We'll talk, son. We'll... mm. I'll give you *everything* you need. But... say what *else* you need." 

Porthos shivers and flushes even more deeply and squeezes his eyes shut. 

Treville pets his boy, his beautiful... 

He strokes his soft beard, and wonders, for a moment, how much softer it will get when his boy starts *shifting* -- 

And Porthos's eyes fly open wide. 

Treville hums. "Not to worry, son. I'll guide you through it. I'll *train* you through it." 

"I. Uh. But..." Porthos swallows. "I mean -- are you *sure*? Mum wasn't --" 

"She was, son. Guillou *blocked* her shift -- it was the only way he could control her that much -- and hide her that effectively," Treville says, and raises an eyebrow. 

"Oh -- *oh*," Porthos says, and growls low and flat and *perfectly* animal. 

Treville strokes him and *ignores* the twitch of his own ears -- 

"She -- if her dog could've gotten out, she would've been able to get to the *All*-Mother." 

"That's right --" 

"But..." Porthos frowns. "Why didn't *you* go to the All-Mother?" 

"I did, son -- eventually. When I *learned* that I had that *option*. I absolutely did *not* know before that point, because the rituals which altered your mother and I were designed to bypass the All-Mother as much as possible --" 

"*Why*?" 

"Your mother's guardians -- and the two of *us* -- had very, very wrong-headed ideas about how the All-Mother would *feel* about receiving two new children without having chosen them Herself --" 

"You were already Her bloody children!" 

Treville smiles ruefully. "You're a great *deal* better trained on this score than we were, son."

"I..." Porthos blinks and nods slowly. "Mum made sure of it." 

Treville inclines his head. "Now tell me what you *need* to tell me. What do you need from me before we make love, mm?" 

"*Fuck*, I --" Porthos laughs big, explosively -- but nervously. "You really just..." He licks his lips and shakes his head. 

Treville smiles and hums. "Understand, son: The *only* way I have *any* intention of letting us make love --" 

"'Letting', sir?" 

"*Letting*, son. And it's absolutely not going to happen unless we're both ready for it, and *show* we're ready for it by being *blisteringly* honest about everything in our minds and hearts," Treville says, and raises an eyebrow. 

Porthos takes a breath -- and nods. "Right you are, sir. I need -- I need to have more of you." 

"You can have everything --" 

"*Specifically*," Porthos says, and raises his own eyebrows.

"Yes, son?" 

"I need to have bloody *everything* that lets you do *this* with your *actual son*." 

Treville blinks. 

"Is this really a *surprise*?" 

Treville hums, steps back, and flourishes down the street -- 

"*Arse* -- fuck -- don't make me --" 

"Son, I have not *stopped* being an arse just because we now *know* that I'm your father." 

"But -- bloody hell," Porthos says, laughing painfully and leading them down the road. "Just tell me why that was a *surprise*." 

"I... a *part* of me keeps forgetting me that you *haven't* been a part of my pack... forever." 

Porthos blinks and blushes *deeply*. 

"I think that made sense to you..." 

"I -- I -- you can *feel* that it did!" 

Treville sighs. "It warms me. It *fills* me. And it breaks my heart." 

Porthos grunts -- and looks at him. 

"I should've been there to *help* teach you weapons, son. I should've been there to ease your every scar. I should've been there to make sure you had good food, warm clothes, a warm den to bed down in..." 

"Uhh..." 

"Yes, the dog is voicing some opinions, too. Your own dog will start voicing opinions... soon, I'd say. He's still coming to you." 

Porthos shivers -- "*Fuck* --" 

"Shh, son. It's all right. I *promise* it's all right." 

"Sir, I -- how the bloody hell am I going to keep this a *secret*?" 

"Ah. Well, you won't." 

"Uh." 

"You won't, son. *Don't* try -- especially hard." 

"But..." 

"*Expect* the regiment to know -- to a man -- that there's something a bit different about you. Expect a *large* number of jokes and comments about your canine nature, and how it may or may not make you behave when --" 

"*Shit* --" 

"*Expect* those comments to come fast and furious when you're doing things like using your healing powers to *save men's lives*..." And Treville raises an eyebrow at his beautiful son. 

Porthos blinks -- and obviously considers. 

Treville gives him the time to do it as they walk, and examines his boy's neighbourhood. They've already passed *three* brothels since turning onto this street, and the taverns are thick on the ground, too. 

Absolutely no one has said anything -- or even smelled *curious* -- about the two men all over each other not very far into the shadows. Which, considering what Treville can see -- and *smell* -- happening not very far into the alleys they're passing... 

He rumbles in approval. He would've *loved* living in a neighbourhood like this one at Porthos's age. 

Porthos snorts. "Sir." 

"Mm?" 

"'s a bit bloody *challenging* when I'm trying to get a good night's *rest*." 

Treville claps him on the shoulder. "You'll sleep when you're dead, son. Now --" 

Porthos splutters -- 

"Now, son --" 

"I get it. I -- the men will *mostly* be making comments because they'll be a bit nervous of how *powerful* I am, but you don't think they'll, you know, *hate* me for it. Or want to see me *swing*."

"Laurent *personally* recruited the first regiment -- and bloody well made sure there'd be room for men like *me*, son. Now what do you *think* *I've* been doing about recruitment since then?" 

Porthos nods slowly. "So... not *just* a remarkable number of curiously *respectable* deviants, then." 

Treville hums. "Honestly, son, if you start with that as your *foundation*, you can go very, very far --" 

Porthos snickers and cuffs him. 

Treville sighs happily.


	4. THIS IS ALL PERFECTLY NORMAL.

There's a part of Porthos which is honestly *only* stunned and scrambled because the bloody *Captain* is in his bloody *rooms*. 

Looking *around*. 

That part -- 

That part *absolutely* can't handle any of the rest of the things which have happened tonight. 

That part is, probably, still at Elias's, teaching Marc and Paul and Gaspard and all the others how to cheat at cards and enjoying the *quiet* kind of flirting he can do there, and at places like that. Places where he can be *just* as much of a deviant as he is while also being... just as careful as he wants to be.

Just as *cautious* about his bloody *size* and *strength*. 

The boys never mind him being like that. 

The boys never mind him taking his *time*... though they do sometimes rush through the games -- 

Treville sighs. 

From -- right next to the bed. 

Porthos thinks *very* hard about being intimidated by that -- 

Treville barks a laugh -- "Son," he says, and turns around -- and he's holding Mum's ravaged-to-hell-and-back scarf *extremely* carefully in his gloved hands. 

The -- the best one. 

The orange and yellow one, with the pattern of stylized flowers that are *like* suns, and -- 

Porthos licks his lips and nods to it, and then runs a hand over the darker scarf on his head. "I wore that -- I wore that one until I couldn't anymore." 

Treville closes his eyes for a moment -- 

_And Porthos is looking at his *Mum* in that scarf, and the matching wrap-dress, and little gold bangles on her wrists and at her throat, and she's --_

_Oh --_

_She's *pregnant* --_

_She's --_

_She's so *healthy* and --_

_She's tall and strong and dark -- no *grey* to her features, no --_

_And she's *glaring* at Treville -- who is *laden* with gifts -- from the top of the steps outside a pretty nice-looking tenement that Porthos doesn't recognize. Porthos can tell that it's Paris, and probably not all *that* far from the *very* poor neighbourhoods, but --_

_"Jean-*Armand*."_

_"Hey! What'd I do to deserve *that*? I just got here!"_

_"*Why* are you here!"_

_"Because it's bloody *Christmas*! I have *presents* for you!"_

_"I am not a Christian and neither are you!"_

_"I."_

_Mum narrows her eyes._

_Treville licks his lips and seems *stymied*._

_Mum crosses her *arms* under her *breasts* -- and shivers, a little. It's not *snowing*, but it's clear that she's not dressed for the weather._

_She's... dressed up._

_*For* -- for *Treville* --_

_"Right, Amina-love. It's *Winter Gift-Giving Holiday* --"_

_"Oh, *is* it?"_

_"Yes, it is --"_

_"Did you make that up?"_

_"Yes, I *did*. *For* you, because you deserve all these nice presents --"_

_"*Hmph* --"_

_"And *I* deserve to chafe your perfect skin until you're warm again," Treville says, and lolls his tongue._

_Mum narrows her eyes *differently* -- and licks her teeth. "I will *think* about it, sweet brother. When I have seen your *gifts*."_

And Treville eases them out of the memory again, slowly and gently. 

*Softly*. 

Porthos takes a shivering breath and just -- "Was that..." 

"Mm?" Treville sets the scarf down again. *Respectfully*. 

"Was that the first time you saw -- that scarf?" And Porthos winces at himself; it's a stupid question, he shouldn't -- 

"Shh, son. There are no stupid questions for things like this," Treville says *softly*. "I needed to know absolutely everything about my father -- and I *vastly* regret every question I didn't ask, now that there's no one I *can* ask." 

"Oh." 

"Yes?" 

"Yes, sir." 

"Good. And, yes, that *was* the first time I saw the entire... ensemble. Including the jewelry. She told me, not long before I lost you both, that she had bought the fabric for the dress and scarf years before, but hadn't let Ife -- her youngest guardian -- make them for her until after she met me," Treville says, and smiles ruefully. "She didn't *wear* them until after we were bound." 

And that -- Porthos raises an eyebrow. "Until you'd earned it?" 

"That's *right*, son. She didn't move *in* with me for even longer." 

"I -- that answers the next question," Porthos says, and laughs hard. "How the bloody hell did she expect..." 

"Mm?" 

"I mean -- she was *pregnant* with your *child*, sir. There's a difference between *independent* and *insane*," Porthos says, and keeps laughing. But. 

Treville doesn't laugh with him. 

Treville looks -- and *smells*, and Porthos isn't sure if he *wants* to know why he *knows* this so well -- wounded and *enraged*. 

"You know because the All-Mother is gently explaining your burgeoning powers to you, son." 

"Oh *shit* --" 

"She's feeding you the information on... the same pathways your dog is taking to come to you." 

"Right, *fine*, but -- why are you *upset*? What's *wrong*?" 

Treville squeezes his eyes shut and *growls* -- and then opens his eyes again and moves close. He doesn't just *cup* Porthos's shoulders this time -- he *grips* them. 

"I'm not going to bloody make a *break* for it, sir --" 

"I'm not your *blood*-father, son." 

"What." 

"I'm your father by blood-*magic* --" 

"What -- what are you -- who the sodding hell *is* my --" 

"The eldest son of the then-Marquis de Belgard, whom I murdered -- as brutally as I could --" 

"What the *fuck* --" But. Treville is sharing memories again. 

Treville is sharing memories of himself *torturing* a man to *death* -- 

Porthos's *father* -- who is... whining. 

About how his parents were about to disinherit him if he didn't -- 

If. 

Porthos snarls and *yanks* himself back -- 

"Son --" 

"How did -- *why* was my Mum with -- *fuck* --" Porthos snarls again and covers his face with his hands. 

He already knows that a Marquis -- and the son of a Marquis -- can do whatever he sodding well *wants* to in this country, so long as it doesn't tread on anyone even *higher*-ranked. The life and happiness of an ex-slave and her child would've been bloody *meaningless*. It. 

He breathes. 

He breathes. 

He -- "I want -- to tear that whole bloody family apart, sir." 

"Well... your godfather has been doing just that for the past twenty years, son," Treville says, with a wry smile in his voice. 

Porthos blinks. "My -- what...?" 

"Laurent -- the *comte de la Fère* -- was a favourite of Henri, son. He cleaned up the mess I made with Belgard." 

"Shit --" 

"And then, over the years, he proceeded to make many, many more messes that I *couldn't* have made without committing *several* varieties of suicide." 

Porthos licks his lips. "Because... he's your pack." 

"And Amina's pack, son. And even though we never got you officially baptized... well. You're his godson through the *All-Mother*." 

Porthos swallows... and shivers. "I think..." 

Treville moves close again, and starts *petting* him again in those perfect *ways* -- and he rumbles. "I'll do it all the time, son. My palms *ache* with the need to pet my boy." 

Porthos shivers again. "Your... even though I'm not --" 

"Long before my Amina-love was pregnant, long before my cock *worked* that way, I told her that I dreamed of adopting *all* her children." 

"Uh." 

"I wanted to marry her before my cock worked that way, too, son." 

"But..." 

Treville hums. "I did mention that she was my mate...?" 

Porthos blushes. "Right -- uh. Right. Sorry --" 

"Shh, son. None of this comes easy," Treville says, and licks his *cheek* again -- 

"Sir --" 

"Do you need me not to do that, son?" 

"I --" But. Porthos swallows, and *thinks* about it -- 

And *feels* about it -- 

Feels something *rising* in him -- 

And damned well leans in and licks *Treville's* cheek, which -- his beard is even softer than it had always looked. His *stubble* is weirdly soft, like -- 

Like fur. 

Porthos licks his lips -- 

Treville is rumbling, and he smells pleased and amused and aroused and so -- 

So *happy* to be right *here* -- 

"With you, son. With you." 

"I -- no." 

"Mm?" 

Porthos licks Treville twice more, once against the *grain* of his beard -- 

Treville rumbles *hard* -- and licks him right back -- 

"My -- my beard isn't as -- soft --" 

"It's perfect, son," Treville says, and gives him a *long* lick. "It's -- mm. I'd like to nuzzle into it. Sniff you better." 

"Uh." 

"Not if it would make you --" 

"It's not -- it wouldn't make me uncomfortable," Porthos says, and smiles ruefully, backing up just -- a little. 

Treville raises an eyebrow -- and then lowers it and nods. "It arouses you to have your beard played with." 

"It *really* does. It always has. I'm um. Not quite ready for that." 

"Right you are, son," Treville says, calm and easy and so *patient* -- "Back to the sitting room?" 

"We can -- we *can* --" 

"We *can* take ourselves out to those *very* comfortable-looking chairs and have a *seat*, son." 

"I just --" 

"You want to know more about me. You *need* to know more about me. And I need the *exact* same thing about you -- if for different reasons at the *moment*," Treville says, and raises the *teaching* eyebrow. 

Porthos takes another *breath* -- and grins. "Yes, sir. You're --" And Porthos is blushing, but he's bloody well going to say this *anyway* -- "I've thought -- um. More than once, I've thought that any man who *didn't* want to have you as their father was either mad or *evil*." 

And Treville gives him *that* look. That -- 

It's a look that's been getting *very* familiar over the course of the night, and -- 

"You're. You're thinking about how much you -- care for me." 

A *quirked* eyebrow raise -- and a hum. "That I am, son," Treville says, and cocks his head toward Porthos's little sitting room. "Shall we?" 

"Yeah, I -- let's." 

Porthos sets them up with tumblers of wine, and it's *not* any good, but Treville is bloody *savouring* it like it's bloody *ambrosia* -- 

Treville *winks* at him -- "The Captain of the King's Musketeers is *not* allowed to drink just any sort of wine or spirits, son. Not in *public*." 

"No, 'course not --" 

"Which is why the *only* spirit I drink when I have a choice -- in public -- is brandy. I *miss* wine like this." 

"I -- hunh. Yeah?" 

"Oh, yes, son. This..." He licks his lips -- and a good bit of his *face*, narrowing his eyes in pleasure. "This is pleasure. Companionship. Long nights carousing with the men I've loved the most -- and the *woman* I loved the most -- all over Paris. All over *France*. All over *Europe*. 

"This -- is my youth," Treville says, and tosses the rest of the wine back, just like that. 

Porthos refills his tumbler *immediately* -- 

"Thank you, son." 

"You're *welcome*, sir. Did you -- I mean. You were... friends? With Mum? Before you were bound?" 

Treville wags his head thoughtfully. 

"No?" 

"I don't know... 'friends' is a small word."

"Is it?" 

"We met that night in that teahouse --" 

"*Oh* -- *that* teahouse?" 

Treville blinks -- and nods. "She *worked* in that teahouse, once upon a time, son." 

"*Really*?" 

Treville grins. "She was *one* of the gorgeous maids making that place lively and warm and wonderful, and my brothers -- Kitos and Reynard, that is -- went in one night after spending *most* of the evening whoring with *women*. They *immediately* tried to make time with your mother --" 

"*Fuck*!" 

"She told them what they could *do* with themselves --" 

"I -- I --" But Porthos doesn't have *words* to go after that. Lieutenant Kitos has *always* been warm and friendly and helpful -- *and* bloody educational in about ten *thousand* ways, especially for a larger bloke like him trying to learn how to be bloody *graceful* with a *sword* -- but. 

"Reynard is different, son...?" And Treville's tongue is peeking in that *slyly* obnoxious way he has. 

"You bloody know he is! He's sodding terrifying!" 

Treville laughs *hard*. 

"You *arse*. Just *tell* --" 

"His women -- and girls -- never found him terrifying. Not in *that* way, son." 

"Uhh..." 

"*You've* never gotten the opportunity to see this, and I can tell, now, that you just haven't *heard* too much about it -- and I'll be scolding Athos for this *roundly* --" 

"Fuck --" 

"But Reynard has always been far, far more of the gentle and charming and agreeable -- if insatiable -- *slut* than the terrifyingly violent madman with the *fairer* sex." 

"*Really*?" 

Treville snickers. "Son. *Think about who this regiment is*." 

"I *know* that, but --" 

"But Reynard, yes," Treville says, and sighs happily. *Dreamily*. 

About bloody Lieutenant *Reynard* -- 

Pretty much *exactly* like a man who'd name their beloved horse bloody *Disemboweller* -- 

Treville snorts and drinks more wine -- 

Porthos follows his example -- 

"Good boy. I will admit that Reynard is... somewhat... *mercurial*." 

"Sir." 

"Son. One question?" 

"Hit me." 

"You watch everything -- and *everyone* -- at the garrison." 

"Of course I do --" 

"You had to see -- and have to *continue* to see -- that everything is on the up and up. Right?"

"Bloody yes!" 

"So. How *exactly* is Reynard with the *recruits*."

"I --" 

"With the young men -- and the boys -- who *cannot* defend themselves against the worst of his excesses?" 

Porthos opens his mouth -- and closes it. "Right, but --" 

"Yes, son?" 

"Is he *always* that careful? *Really*? How *good* is he at *deciding* who can defend themselves? How much does he play fast and loose with that kind of thing?" 

"Well, son, when it comes down to it? A man who insults one of his pack, or the regiment, or the honour of a woman -- be she highborn or a dockside whore -- or injures a child, or -- you get the idea, yes?" 

"I do, yeah. That man is getting bloody *julienned*, whether or *not* they can actually defend themselves. *Right*?" 

Treville looks him dead in the eye. "I think you'd agree, son, that some *people* -- male or female or otherwise -- forfeit their *right* to be treated as people after some *crimes*." 

Porthos grunts -- "I *do* agree with that --" 

"There's your answer," Treville says, and nods. 

"But, *sir*, you can't *tell* me you haven't had to -- to *stop* Reynard from being a little too bloody *enthusiastic* with how he *redefined* people." 

Treville licks his lips -- and grins. Sharply. "We have. We *all* have, son." 

"*Thank* you --" 

"But?" 

"Bloody *what*?" 

"Often, in those cases, it was the wealth and *status* of the men Reynard wanted to fillet that saved their lives... rather than any intrinsic *worth*." And Treville just continues *looking* at him like -- 

Exactly like he should. Porthos winces. "Right -- I'm sorry --" 

"Don't, son. Your concerns are *entirely* reasonable --" 

"But --" 

"*But* I voiced them myself -- in a *somewhat* different way -- to Laurent, years ago, after *he* was the one who had to stop Reynard from killing the wrong man at the wrong time while the *rest* of us quieted down the wild, mad storm of a brawl that had them at its center." 

"I -- oh," Porthos says, and blinks a bit. "What... what did he say, sir?" 

Treville takes another long drink, and licks his lips -- 

_And Porthos is looking at a tall and *rangy* man who is *obviously* Athos's father. The beard and moustache are a little different -- thicker around the mouth --_

_And mussed --_

_And full of *blood* from where he's taken at least one *good* hit to his reddened and swollen nose --_

_But the hair's the same, and the jaw's *mostly* the same, and he's bloody gorgeous like Athos --_

_And his eyes are -- quietly amused._

_*Secretly* amused, but not in a small way like most people with secrets get. His eyes are just a little wild, just a little --_

_"*Right*," Treville says, walking up with a linen and a basin of steaming water. His hair is sticking up in all directions and his leathers are slashed *through* in two places --_

_"Yes, little brother...?" If anything, Laurent's eyes get wilder, more full of -- something._

_Porthos isn't sure, yet --_

_Treville snorts and starts dabbing carefully and gently at the blood on Laurent's face --_

_"It isn't broken --"_

_"And I can smell *precisely* how much pain you're in -- *why* did you let that tavern maid hit you with a table leg?"_

_"It seemed the better part of valour --"_

_Treville snorts again. "You don't know *nearly* enough about bar fights, brother."_

_Another *flare* from those wild blue eyes -- "I am, as ever, hopelessly ignorant."_

_"Mm," Treville says, and works in silence for a few moments._

_He forces Laurent's mouth open brusquely and wiggles a few teeth --_

_And then he nods in satisfaction and just leans in to examine the somewhat *horrible* cut that had been hidden under all the dried and drying blood on Laurent's left cheek. It's oozing blood steadily, and --_

_"Do I need --"_

_"You don't need stitches."_

_"Truly?"_

_"You don't need stitches because I'm about to *heal* you, brother," Treville says. "Now grip my shoulders."_

_"Hm. I --"_

_"No arguments."_

_"Treville --"_

_"Laurent. You have to *address* the *Queen-Regent* in two *hours*," Treville says, and raises his eyebrow *high*._

_Laurent -- winces._

_"Yes?"_

_"As you -- wisely -- say, little brother," he says, and grips Treville's shoulders firmly with his huge, powerful-looking hands._

_"There you are," Treville says, and --_

_Porthos can feel Treville opening himself, feel him *sharing* himself, feel him *giving* himself to the *All-Mother*, just like all the descriptions --_

_Even in a *memory* --_

_It's so real --_

_It's so *powerful* --_

_Porthos can feel Her *love* --_

_It's --_

_It's so *much*, so full, so *powerful*, and he knows that he's worth all of it, every bit, that he's the sweetest of boys, that he always has been, that he'll always be *welcome* --_

_That She's missed him so *much* --_

_And then Porthos hears Laurent *gasp* --_

_Hears Treville hush him and rumble and murmur -- "You're all right, brother... it's over..."_

_"That -- it's always so *shattering*."_

_"I -- yes?"_

_"I always wind up feeling as though I have no questions *whatsoever*, brother," Laurent says, standing and straightening his far-less-damaged leathers. "It's the most disconcerting sensation *imaginable*."_

_Treville snorts *hard* -- "Ah. I apologize --"_

_Laurent hums, eyes bright and sparkling. "Not at all, brother. Believe me when I say that I know *precisely* what that sounded like," he says, and tilts his head to the side pointedly. "Now, are you going to ask me your questions...?"_

_"I..." Treville flushes._

_"You're *not* going to ask me your questions, little brother...?"_

_"Laurent --"_

_"That hardly seems honourable..."_

_"*Fuck* -- all *right*."_

_When Laurent grins, he looks about *ten* years old -- and utterly and completely starkers. "You don't, actually, have to."_

_"I *know* I don't. I -- *you* had to be the one to keep Reynard from *castrating* that fucking *bishop* today --"_

_"A *significant* part of me can't help but wish my reflexes hadn't been *quite* that good --"_

_Treville splutters --_

_And Laurent smiles gently --_

_Warmly --_

_And cups Treville's cheek. "My little brother. My love."_

_"I -- yours. *Always*."_

_"And always your brothers'. *Our* brothers'."_

_"Of course --"_

_"Wait," Laurent says -- *orders*._

_"I'm listening, brother," Treville says, and turns enough to lick Laurent's hilt-callus._

_Laurent growls softly -- but only for a brief moment before he nods. "A regiment -- an *elite* regiment -- needs more than one kind of soldier, brother --"_

_"Of course --"_

_"Wait," Laurent orders again._

_Treville nods once -- and stands straight._

_Laurent nods again. "An elite regiment, once it has every kind of soldier a regimental *commander* planning a *campaign* can think to put on the field of battle... needs just one more kind of man, brother," Laurent says. "It needs the man who will rouse the other men to action which is frankly -- and obviously -- *suicidal*. It needs the man who will *drive* the other men to *push* themselves beyond all reason, beyond all sanity, beyond all *sense* -- because the *best* commanders know that, no matter what, there *will* come a day when *all* regiments, no matter *how* elite, find themselves in the *most* desperate straits._

_"On that day? *Every* regiment *must* have a man -- or two, or three -- whose spirit is too *different* from that of the average man to fall easily to fear and despair, brother._

_"I knew, while I was still regular Army, while I was still only dreaming of what we would be someday, while I was still only dreaming of your *touch* --"_

_"Oh --"_

_"I *knew*, little brother, that even if I managed to steal *every* fantastically talented man I had ever met or heard of from *every* regiment I'd ever visited -- I still wouldn't have enough."_

_"Because -- you wouldn't have a man like... Reynard."_

_Laurent inclines his head. "*Every* elite regiment needs men who will fight to the *death* -- if not beyond -- for their Kings, for their countries, for their *brothers* -- even if not, necessarily, in that order."_

_Treville nods slowly... but still frowns._

_And Laurent smiles slyly again. "Yes, brother...?"_

_Treville *looks* at him. "You still haven't actually -- right. When you were *planning* all this. When you were searching high and low for *a* Reynard."_

_"Yes...?"_

_"How *exactly* did you plan to deal with the *inevitable* *difficulties* when he -- or the *multiple* hes -- decided to fight to the death with a bloody *bishop*?"_

_Laurent hums -- and knuckles at his moustache to hide a *bright* smile --_

_"*Laurent* --"_

_Laurent coughs -- and takes a breath, serious again just that quickly. "Little brother. I knew, deep within myself, that I couldn't take in just *any* especially... passionate man."_

_"Really."_

_"Mm. I knew... that I would need a man who could have -- and *would* have -- his many passions *banked* by his brothers' steadying *influence*."_

_Treville stares at Laurent. *Incredulously*._

_Laurent raises an eyebrow._

_Treville *glares* at Laurent._

_Laurent raises his eyebrow *higher* --_

_"Bloody -- *Laurent* --"_

_"Little brother. *Precisely* how many times has Reynard declared himself to be *your* weapon, and your weapon alone...?"_

_Treville's jaw drops --_

_He flushes *and* blushes --_

_He closes his mouth._

_And licks his lips._

_And tips the hat he isn't *wearing* -- "Right you are, Captain. Your lectures remain both self-evident and entirely edifying --"_

_"How *many* times must I tell you, recruit? Flattery is beneath you -- and will not save you from my wrath..."_

The memory fades slowly and easily again, until Porthos is looking at a Treville he *realizes* is older, and a *lot* more grey -- hunh. 

"Yes, son...? Ah. That wasn't *especially* long after the Musketeers were *founded*, son." 

"Oh -- shit -- really?" 

"Mm," Treville says, and takes a drink. "Henri didn't last long after giving this to us -- and Laurent tortured himself terribly over the question of whether giving this to us was part of *why* he didn't last long." 

Porthos blinks -- and frowns. "Was it?" 

Treville spreads his hands. "Yes and no, son. Henri had countless knives aimed at his back from the time he was *conceived*. Everything he did -- and didn't do -- was a 'reason' for the people who hated him." 

Porthos takes that in a little. Just -- "*You* liked him. Better than you liked Marie, or Louis." 

"Well -- I'm biased, son," Treville says, and smiles wryly. "For a number of reasons, really. But -- Henri was the one who *raised* our family." 

That. Porthos blinks and just... "You mean..." 

*Treville* blinks -- and nods. "My father -- your *grandfather* --" 

"Uhh..." 

"Your *grandfather*, who would have loved everything *about* you, because you're *precisely* the kind of man -- the kind of *soldier* -- he did his level best to make sure he could keep by his side day and night for *all* of his days --" 

"Shit -- but --" 

"Your *grandfather*, son..." And Treville smiles softly. "He was a *common* soldier, once upon a time." 

"*Really*?" 

Treville inclines his head. "Just so, son. Rising through the ranks; hating the Brits, the Spanish, the clergy, the nobility --" 

"Uh." 

Treville hums. "It was, at first, a battlefield promotion. The only officers of any *worth* had been summarily killed in action. The rest had taken to their mounts and run like the cowards they were, deserting their men. My father took it upon himself to rally the survivors until they could beat back the Spaniards -- who *had* to be thinking it was time for a *rout* -- for long enough that they could make an *organized* retreat." 

"Shit -- and then?" 

"The Spanish commander had lured your grandfather's entirely *useless* commander into a *swamp*, son. It looked bad all round, really -- but, that's the thing: It *looked* bad. The Spanish chose not to rest up while your grandfather's men were doing just that." 

"Oh. The Spanish were... celebrating?" 

"Mm. They had all sorts of trophies, son. The Duc's tent, his maps, his jeweled rapier... and they had the confidence that comes from the knowledge that they've cut off the *head* of their enemies." Treville raises an eyebrow. 

"I -- uh. Yeah, I'd be celebrating, too." 

Treville smiles. "It's a rare man who wouldn't be, son. And *that's* what saved your grandfather's life -- and the lives of all those other brave young men. All those other men who had *every* reason to follow their commanders' example and run for the hills -- but didn't." 

Porthos nods slowly... and smiles. "So he was raised for that." 

"No." 

Porthos blinks. "But..." 

Treville *winks* -- "He had to clean up an entirely *different* commander's fuck-up on *another* battlefield *first*." 

"For fuck's sake!" 

"To be fair --" 

"I don't bloody want to be!" 

Treville laughs hard -- 

"*Sir* --" 

"I feel the *same*, son -- and I told him so!" 

"Oh. What'd he say?" 

Treville smiles *softly* -- 

_And Porthos is looking at a *huge* man wearing the clothes of a courtier *exactly* like he'd rather be rolling in a pile of two-day-old shite._

_His hair is a dark blond, his eyes are blue --_

_And warm --_

_And full of *love* for the young boy *glaring* up at him --_

_The man grins then, bright and wide and wild and fierce and *proud*, and, even though *nothing* is really the same in *looks* except for the *beard*, Porthos knows that it's Treville's father._

_His --_

_Porthos's grandfather. It --_

_"*Dad*!"_

_"No, son? You don't like that Henri didn't raise me straight away?" And the man -- the *General* -- is looming over the young Treville, but not in a bad way --_

_He's smiling so *happily* --_

_It's *obvious* that he wants to spend time with Treville, that --_

_"No, I *don't*! He -- he should've known! They all should've known!"_

_The General bites the tip of his tongue, eyes sparkling. "That I was... better?"_

_"*Yes*!"_

_"A cut above, son?"_

_"That's *right*!"_

_The General *coughs* a laugh --_

_Sobers himself *badly* --_

_And hums. "That I was *worth* more than the other good, strong, *brave* men in my regiment...?"_

_The young Treville blinks rapidly -- and then *scowls* *ferociously* -- "*Dad*!"_

_The General laughs *hard*, scooping Treville up in his arms --_

_"Dad -- you --"_

_Lifting him up *high* --_

_"I'm too big for this!"_

_The General pulls Treville in close and play-growls into his neck --_

_And Treville giggles and screams and kicks, just a little, before throwing his arms around the General's neck and squeezing tight._

_"*There's* my little terror --"_

_"I --"_

_"And you will *always* be my little terror, son," the General says, and smiles warmly, so *warmly*._

_"*Dad*."_

_The General hums and carries Treville to a table -- a *map* table, and it's the whole of France._

_"Oh! More lessons now, Dad?"_

_"Just a little, son."_

_"All right! Let me get my soldiers --"_

_"Shh, shh, you won't need them for this," the General says, and *points* to the map. "Tell me something, son."_

_"Yes, Dad?"_

_"*Where* would *you* say the most dangerous part of our fair country is, mm? Where do you think a man has to show *care* with what he does where, and who he does it with, and *when* he does it."_

_The young Treville doesn't hesitate for a moment, pointing to a spot on the Spanish border. "*There*, Dad. They -- the bastards broke through our lines just last month!"_

_The General narrows his eyes in an almost *grim* pleasure. "That they did, son -- and they'll *pay* for it. But... that is *not* the spot I would pick."_

_"Oh -- no? Did I miss intelligence? I -- did the Savoyards break the treaty --"_

_"No and no, son. I will *not* keep military intelligence from my brilliant boy unless I *have* to," the General says, and -- sighs, suddenly looking tired and *lot* older than he had._

_"Dad...?"_

_"Son, there is something you *must* understand before you're a man grown. Long before."_

_"I'll always listen!"_

_*That* makes the General smile again -- if faintly -- and reach with his free hand to ruffle Treville's hair --_

_"Oh -- *Dad* --"_

_"Son."_

_"I -- yes, Dad."_

_And the General sighs, low and more than a little *disgusted*, and draws a circle around Paris with his hard, callused index finger before tapping on it._

_"Dad...? Are you -- are you saying *that's* the most dangerous place?"_

_The General nods grimly. "Listen carefully, son: When you get right down to it? A treaty is naught but a piece of parchment covered in pretty, hopeful words. That's a very, very thin thing to expect to protect the lives of hundreds of thousands."_

_"But..."_

_"The only thing that makes a treaty *more* than that? Is the agreement of men -- and women -- of *rank* to be better and smarter and *greater* than everything that makes them *human*."_

_"But that's not possible!"_

_The General smiles ruefully, and hitches Treville more comfortably on his hip. "No, it isn't, son. That's why there's no such thing as a *permanent* treaty, and why, ultimately, *most* treaties do far more to grind one or more nations into the dust than they do to *uplift* nations in the name of peace and prosperity. Does that...?"_

_The young Treville frowns thunderously down at the map -- at *Paris*._

_"I -- mayhap I shouldn't --"_

_"You're saying -- you're saying the other nobles are too petty and greedy and -- and *evil* to do anything right!"_

_"I -- not --"_

_"You're saying -- you're saying that *that's* why Henri couldn't raise you when he *should've* raised you!"_

_The General *coughs* -- "Son --"_

_The young Treville is glaring *hotly* again, and --_

_And the General relaxes as if the weight of ten thousand *Herculean* tasks had been taken off his shoulders. "Oh, my little *terror*," he says, and lifts Treville up *high* again --_

_"Oh -- *Dad*!"_

_This time, the play-growling goes on until Treville has giggled himself breathless, and the two of them are wrestling on the floor._

_When it stops, the General is on his back, pretty-courtier-clothes rucked-up to hell and back, and Treville is straddling him and looking thrilled to be alive._

_"Now, to clear up just a *few* things --"_

_"What?"_

_"The *entire* French peerage isn't worthless, son --"_

_Treville looks like he's about to stage a *mutiny* --_

_The General laughs *hard* -- "We'll just give you the chance to see that for yourself, mm?"_

_Treville nods once._

_"Right you are. Next: Because *some* members of the French peerage aren't worth very much, but *are* very powerful --"_

_Treville starts growling flatly --_

_"I love you so much, son --"_

_"I love *you*, Dad! Tell me more!"_

_The General hums. "Henri had to placate those arseholes for *years* when he was a young man -- even though he was *King*. Kings do *not* make *everyone* dance to their tune, son. Not in this day and age. And, if they're *smart* Kings -- the way Henri *absolutely* is -- they do not *try* to make *anyone* do *any* dancing unless and until they know they *will* be able to make them do it." And the General raises his eyebrows._

_Treville frowns for that, at first -- but then his expression clears, and he nods slowly. "It's not like the regiment, at *all*."_

_"That it isn't, son. Though..." And the General keeps his eyebrows up._

_Treville blinks and *obviously* thinks about it -- "You've... had to do things like that? Wait to *order* the men until you were sure that they -- but. No, that makes sense! Of course you don't want to give an order you aren't sure will be *followed*. That would make everyone *laugh*."_

_The General hums with amusement and *absolute* pride. "And worse, son. A *lot* worse. But that's a lesson for another day."_

_"But --"_

_"I know, son. But..." And the General lifts them both up to their feet and straightens their clothes quickly and easily._

_When he's done, the General still looks *far* more like a soldier than a courtier -- but he no longer looks like he'd rather be rolling in filth._

_He's pulled on... something._

_The younger Treville studies his father for long moments and very obviously tries to pull on a bit of the same thing --_

_"Oh, son. You look like you're plotting the deaths of at least half of our brethren in the nobility."_

_"That's because I am!"_

_The general *guffaws* --_

_And the young Treville drinks it *right* in._

The memory fades slowly and gently again, and Porthos comes back to himself with a *massive* smile on his face, and just -- "He was *amazing*!" 

Treville grins. "That he was," he says, and knocks back his wine -- "Mm. I'll tell you *everything* about him, son. You'll almost certainly have to gag me to get me to shut it, from time to time." 

"I'm not even *remotely* going to to do it, sir. I *need* to know about him! About -- about everyone, eh? Your whole family!" And he leans over to fill Treville's tumbler again.

"*Your* whole family, son. I --" Treville takes a deep breath and gives himself a shake, careful not to jostle the wine -- it's obvious he's had some practice at that. "They're all gone now, and it *angers* me... for a lot of reasons," he says, and frowns. "You should've had the chance to come to know your grandparents." 

"I'll know them through you, sir. Through --" He licks his lips. "You're *really* amazing at sharing your memories." 

Treville hums. "You're wonderful at it, yourself, son. Getting to see my Amina-love like that..." He shivers. "Getting to see the two of you *together*... you have to know I spent a lot of years convinced I would *never* have that." 

"Oh. Sir..." 

"But that's -- that's not for right now --" 

"No, I -- I'll give you *all* my memories -- 's not like I don't want all of *yours* --" 

"Wait, son. Just one moment, mm?" And Treville raises his eyebrows and leans in, resting his elbows on his knees. 

"I -- sir? What is it?" Porthos mimics his pose -- 

Treville smiles and closes his eyes for a long moment -- 

"Are you thinking of... no, tell me what you're thinking about, sir." 

"I'm thinking of my brave, bold, beautiful son, and being close to him, and having the chance to share memories with him." And Treville opens his eyes again -- and smiles just a little *wryly*. "That's all." 

And that... Porthos nods and gives that a little bit of thought. "This... this is big for you." 

"Perhaps a *little* bigger for me than it is for you, son..." 

"No, it -- uh. But I never had the chance to dream of this." 

"That's right. Your mother..." Treville shivers. "She never had the chance to tell you about me. About *us*." 

"She just... she would get this look, sometimes," Porthos says, and remembers -- 

"Yes, son?" 

"I -- I got to know, really well, when she was thinking about telling me something personal, something about her *past*..." 

Treville winces. "But she couldn't. That must've..." He shakes his head. "It would've driven her spare. Worse than that. Much worse." 

Porthos swallows and nods. "She uh... well, there were times when she'd turn those frustrations *outward*, you know?" 

"Mm?" 

"I remember -- there were some bullies once, who were terrorizing the little kids. I was *very* small, and Mum was still mostly healthy --" 

"Your mother would've stood for that about as well as she would've stood for you talking back to her." 

"That's *right*, sir. I -- yeah. She waded into the big group of them, with just her blade and, you know, her cosh, and I didn't even have time to be *scared* for her before she'd done for the lot of them, cursing them all out as she went --" 

Treville *coughs* -- "Oh, did she...?" 

"Mm?" 

"Sometimes she would leave one of her targets *standing*, son. So they could enjoy the full *force* of her lectures." 

Porthos snorts hard. "Of bloody *course* she did that, I -- well, this time, she was just sort of, you know, kicking this one real arsehole down the *street* --" 

"Fuck -- and yelling the whole time?" 

"*Loudly*. *Creatively*. I didn't understand everything she was saying --" 

"Well, you were small --" 

"The crowd that gathered were laughing their *arses* off, though," Porthos says, and grins. 

Treville grins, too, ignoring the tear that rolls down his cheek. "My perfect --" He sighs and takes another drink. 

Porthos matches him. "But you *don't* want to share memories right now," he says, and raises his eyebrows. 

"I..." Treville licks his lips and smiles wryly again. "I *may* be stalling, son." 

Porthos blinks. "What -- about what? I mean -- are you?" 

"Mm. About that memory of your *grandfather*, son."


	5. Let's get drunk and talk about your Dad.

"What about it? Was there something I missed?" And Porthos frowns. 

"Nothing ominous, son," Treville says, and smiles *ruefully*. 

Porthos frowns harder. "Then what?" 

"I was young in that memory -- but not *very* young. When I asked, after that, if I could be allowed to go on campaign with my father -- instead of staying home with my mother and all the other children --

"When I *begged* for it, truly -- 

"Well, I got what I wanted. And it wasn't long after *that* that my father's lieutenants decided it was time I got at least a *few* lectures and lessons on just what I was seeing all around me when they were toting me all over the various camps like just another well-loved and *entirely* vital piece of military equipment." 

"Uh. But... still nothing ominous?" 

"Absolutely not, son -- your grandfather hand-picked those men over the years from the cream of the French military. They were the best of the best -- in absolutely *every* way -- and every last one of them would've happily eviscerated *anyone* who harmed a child -- especially the child of the *General*," Treville says, and smiles ruefully again. "Which was vastly inconvenient when I was doing my level best to climb down their trousers... but I'm getting ahead of myself --" 

"Uh -- are you?" 

"I am, son. I'm also still stalling, because, despite the fact that my *entire* pack knows and knew everything about what I'm about to tell you, *including* your mother, I'm still shy of it," Treville says, and laughs softly.

Porthos nods slowly. "You... think it will make me think about you differently." 

"I *think*... that you'll go back to wondering if I'm a good enough prospect to be your father, son --" 

"Sir, that hasn't --" Porthos snorts hard. He can't help it. "I'm not *auditioning* men for the role of my father, and I'm not tallying up your little failings over here and sodding keeping *score*. You've *always* been the *only* man I've *ever* wanted as a father. All right?" 

Treville blinks -- and then starts *growling* as his eyes heat. 

"Yeah, *that* sunk in --" 

"Son..." 

"Ease it back for a minute, sir. *You've* got something to tell me. And you *still* have to tell me how lusting for me can be so *easy* for you when I *am* your son in every way that *matters*." 

The growl cuts off *sharply*. 

"I'm listening," Porthos says, and takes a drink. 

"Well. It dovetails, son." 

"Does it, then?" 

"Rather neatly --" 

"Just *tell* me!" 

Treville coughs a laugh and puts his face in his free hand -- 

"Oh, *come* on --" 

But Treville drags his hand right off again, mussing his moustache and beard, which matches his father's about as perfectly as it *can* match it without him dyeing it grey-blond. "I wanted him." 

"You -- what?" 

"I wanted my father, son. Your *grandfather*. I wanted him, and I needed him, and I --" 

"Wait, *wait* --" 

"-- from the very *first* time I was tossing myself *off* --" 

"Bloody *hell* --" 

"And I will *show* you *those* memories, too, if you'd like, because I remember them just as perfectly, just as clearly, as I remember *everything* else about that man," Treville says, and *looks* at Porthos. 

With his *eyebrows* up. 

And he *doesn't* take another drink. He just -- 

Porthos drinks. 

He had some catching up to do. 

He takes care of that. He drinks -- 

And then he fills his tumbler and drinks that -- 

And then he eyes the much-denuded bottle -- 

And then he eyes *Treville* -- 

Treville smiles at him fondly. 

Porthos growls and drinks straight from the bottle, finishing it. 

Then he gives himself a shake and leans in. "So." 

"I'll answer all your questions, son --" 

"You already know what they bloody are!" 

"I still want your *voice*, son -- but: No, he *never* touched me inappropriately. No, he never showed a *single* sign of touching *any* young man -- or young girl, for that matter -- inappropriately. Your grandfather loved women and *only* women, and, truly, he didn't even do that much whoring once I was old enough to go on campaign with him." 

"Uh. You... knew that?" 

"I *asked*, son." 

"But --" 

"I asked *multiple* people -- and paid attention to the talk that was happening when the men were absolutely convinced their underage charge was sleeping, or engrossed in one activity or another," Treville says, and raises an eyebrow. 

Porthos blinks -- "Soldiers are bloody terrible at keeping their mouths shut, yeah. 's one of the things I've always enjoyed about them."

"I feel -- and *felt* -- precisely the same, son. In later years, I was given *detailed*, *exacting* advice about how to find and attract women precisely like my mother -- who my father's lieutenants rather put on a pedestal -- so that I could have a marriage as perfect as the General's." 

That... Porthos frowns. 

"Yes, son?" And there's a *laugh* in Treville's eyes. 

Porthos frowns *hard* -- 

The laugh makes it out of Treville's *mouth* -- 

"You *arse*, just -- just *tell* me!" 

"Your mother had, ultimately, very little in common with your grandmother, son --" 

"Oh thank fuck --" 

"You may, however, have noticed how well your mother would've fit in at the *garrison* --" 

"What." 

"-- or, really, *any* location where the *best* sorts of *soldiers* could be found --" 

"Oh my fucking -- you *arse*!" 

Treville laughs *hard* --

"You -- you -- and she *knew* about this?" 

"She *truly* did --" 

"That you -- wait, when did you *stop* tossing it to your Dad?" 

"There are a *lot* of assumptions in that question, son..." 

Porthos stares. 

Treville lolls his tongue. 

"You know, I've always thought that people *shouldn't* beat their aged parents over the head with bottles --" 

"Aged -- *hey* --" 

"I'm *really* starting to think that I should be willing to make *exceptions* --" 

"Well, you definitely shouldn't try to fill your life with ironclad rules of -- aged? Really?" 

Porthos snorts hard. "*Sir*." 

Treville laughs *quietly*. "I'm here, son, and I can -- and will -- behave. I'm only teasing because... well." And he smiles ruefully again. 

Porthos blinks -- and *remembers* what they were talking about just a couple of minutes ago. "You -- actually thought I'd hold this *against* you." 

"Son --" 

"That I'd -- for a love you had when you were a *boy* --" 

"And for quite a lot longer than that, son --" 

"Right, but -- no, just tell me," Porthos says and tries to make a gesture taking in the two of them, their family, their mutual *pasts* -- "Did you...who *was* he to you?" 

"Mm." And Treville nods and obviously thinks about how he'll answer the question. 

Porthos damned well gives him the time to do it, and gets up to get them another bottle. 

"It warms my heart that you were this ready to entertain, son." 

"You never know, sir. I *might've* talked Athos into my den of sin and iniquity someday." 

Treville snorts. "Oh -- Thomas keeps *trying* to convince Athos to drink until he's drunk at least *once* --" 

"We *all* do, sir. We *all* do," Porthos says, popping the cork with his thumb and topping off Treville's tumbler. 

"Thank you, son," Treville says, and takes a long drink, sighing and flaring his nostrils. "Mm. This one comes from a winery not far from my lands." 

"*Really*?"

"Oh, yes. Their vintages are *godawful* -- and cheap enough to buy *oceans* of."

Porthos snorts *hard* -- "*Arse*. But you've got that right," he says, and pours for himself, toasting Treville casually. 

Treville toasts him right back -- 

They *both* drink -- 

And Treville sighs again. "So. You want to know who your grandfather was to me, yes? With absolute, blistering honesty?" 

"Yes, sir, please. I'm not -- I'm not going to judge you, or think less of you, or any stupid thing like that." 

Treville smiles at him *softly*, cocking his head to the side. "You know I wouldn't love *you* any less if you did, right...? These things... well. No more stalling: He was my *father*, more than *anything* else. I wanted him to teach me everything he knew. I wanted to show him that I'd *learned* everything he'd taught -- and more. Learned it *perfectly*. I wanted him to be *proud* of me. I wanted to *make* him proud. I wanted to follow in his *footsteps*. I wanted to ease his cares and troubles and be the man who could stand as a bulwark to him and *for* him in terms of the French peerage -- and every other enemy he had. 

"I wanted to... listen to his stories and his lectures, even the ones I'd heard a dozen times already. I wanted him to ruffle my hair and growl into my neck and clap his huge hands down onto my shoulders and call me his 'little terror'. I wanted that -- ah, son, a part of me will *always* want that, even now that I have no idea what I'd *do* with it -- the way I imagine you still want your mother's hugs, and to *be* your mother's sweet boy." 

"Oh -- *yeah*. But..." 

"But there's more, yes. Of course there is," Treville says, and looks into his memories for a long moment -- 

His gaze is so far *away* -- 

"I'm looking... at my adolescent shame, son," Treville says, and he's right back in the room again, smiling wryly. 

"Oh -- shit --" 

"It never lasted long, you know." 

Porthos blinks. "It... didn't?" 

"Not at all. I was on campaign *with* him when I first began to mature sexually, and when I first began to toss myself *off* to him, and so, while I would have long, difficult, shame-filled nights from time to time... I would then spend the days *with* him." 

Porthos frowns for a moment -- but. "You'd -- fall for him all over again. Every day." 

"That's right, son." 

"You'd *start* the day with good intentions, and, like, the *best* of morals --" 

"And *end* the day desperate to *dive* into my bedroll with one hand down my breeches and the other hand shoved *into* my mouth, son. The one that smelled most *like* him, of course." 

Porthos laughs hard. "Sir." 

Treville grins. "He was a *very* cuddly man, son. I was --" 

"I." 

"Mm?" 

Porthos does his best to *pin* Treville with a look. 

"I'm listening, son," Treville says, and gives him another one of those *gentle* smiles. 

"I just -- how did your father -- and his *men* -- not *notice*?" 

"Would *you* want to notice something like that about the son of the man you admired most in the world, son...?" 

"I --" 

"Mm. I'm asking the wrong man this question," Treville says, and laughs hard. "*You* would make *everyone* admit to *everything*." 

"Of bloody course I would! And -- are you saying that *no* one...?" 

"I can think of... six or seven of my Dad's eleven closest lieutenants who almost *certainly* knew that my feelings *for* my Dad were a trifle more passionate than *most* sons' for *most* fathers." 

"*Right*, and --" 

"*One* of those men -- Darien -- took me aside one day --" 

"Wait." 

"Son?" 

"Are you --" Porthos frowns and just -- "Did he ask you to *lie*?" 

"Absolutely *not*, son. Your grandfather surrounded himself with men who, well, *hated* lies and liars. Which made things challenging for poor Sébastien -- who was the one of them your grandfather tapped to train us kids for life in the French court -- but that's another story. No, Darien asked me to *talk* to him about my feelings for my father, which I absolutely did not want to do." 

"Oh." 

"And then Darien tried to get me to talk to some of the other lieutenants about it, and generally tried to get the increasingly close-mouthed boy I was growing into to *not* grow into someone who lied about the most important truths of his heart." 

"I like *him*." 

"He would've adored you, son," Treville says, and grins. "*All* of the lieutenants would've adored you, because they would've recognized, in you, *their own kind*. But... I was saying...." He frowns. 

"It's hard?" 

Treville shakes his head slowly. "It's more that... my father's lieutenants very *much* wanted to make my adolescence go as smoothly for me as they could *make* it go. As Darien himself said, I was *their* little terror, *too*. But... I also wasn't," Treville says, and smiles ruefully. "I wasn't, son, *because* I was the General's son, who hadn't been *just* one of their mates in the regiment for a *long* time and -- I suspect -- had *always* run things in one way or another even before he was raised." 

Porthos -- takes a breath. "There was distance." 

"That's right, son. In every conversation, in every helpful little lecture, in *everything*, there was... a moment." 

"When they stopped looking at you like you were theirs, and started looking at you like you were -- only -- *his*." 

Treville smiles ruefully again. "I could never blame them, son." 

"Because you liked being his?" 

"Even when I missed *their* specific touches, their specific *warmth*... I still idolized my father *precisely* as much as they did." 

Porthos frowns again and tries to see...

Tries to see, in that *memory* of his grandfather... 

"Ask, son." 

"Did he... well, you didn't *show* me how he was with you when other people were around. Was he -- did he *keep* you from other people?" 

"He wasn't around to do that, son. He was..." Treville shakes his head. "By the time I was born, Henri had him on a *tight* lead. He wasn't the *only* general the French military could field --" 

"But he was the only *good* one?" 

"Not even that, son. It was more..." Treville licks his lips. "You know precisely how much credit the nobility is *borrowing* from certain sections of the populace, in terms of popularity." 

"Uhh. I was assuming things were *better* in the military, sir."

"They are. They *absolutely* are -- if only because we *mostly* don't let soldiers starve and freeze to death during the winters --" 

"Right --" 

"But we don't do a *damned* thing for their *families*, son. You know that." 

Porthos winces. "I do, sir. My grandfather didn't just understand that better, he was *considered* to understand that better." 

"That's right, son. He put a *face* on the anger of the little people -- for a time -- and, thus, helped to quiet things down --" 

"And made people who hated *Henri* hate *him*?" 

"Exactly." 

"For fuck's *sake*, sir. No *wonder* you were plotting all those noble murders when you were... eight?" 

"Nearly ten, at that point. I was a *small* child, son." 

"You did all right, sir," Porthos says, and frowns judiciously. 

Treville snorts *hard*. "Your mother would..." He shakes his head and grins. "She was only about an inch and a half shorter than me, and *maybe* a stone lighter --" 

"Oh -- *really*?" 

"*Oh*, yes, son. You didn't think she was that big?" 

"No, I... well, she'll always be a mighty *goddess* to the little boy in me, but, you know, I've gotten used to being *much* larger than the *vast* majority of women." 

Treville nods once. "Then please, son, picture your mother *hauling* me out of chairs whenever she felt I was moving too slowly and slapping me so hard I careened off *walls* whenever she felt I'd *erred*," he says, and raises an eyebrow. 

"I." 

"Yes, son?" 

Porthos frowns and considers. "You did everything you could to get the smacks rather than the Jean-Armands. Didn't you." 

Treville sighs happily. "You know me so well already." 

Porthos snickers. "*Arse*. But -- we were talking about your Dad." 

"Mm. Ask, son." 

"Right, you say he wasn't around to keep you all to himself, and be *greedy* of you..." 

"And he wasn't, but..." Treville hums. "You're wondering if that really *mattered* to me when I was a boy. Yes?" 

"I'm more wondering if that mattered to *him*. All kinds of people who aren't there for the kids still act like their kids should always be there for *them* -- and *not* there for anyone *else*." 

"Very true, son -- he wasn't like that." 

"No? Not at all?" 

Treville shakes his head and looks a little distant -- but only for a moment before coming right back. "I've wondered, more than once, how he *really* felt about the fact that I all but surrendered even the *idea* of having a *blood*-family other than him..." He shakes his head. "I never asked him. I never asked his *men*. And my *entire* blood-family was gone -- stem and *root* -- by the time I was seventeen." 

"Shit --" 

"I honestly don't know, son," Treville says, and looks at him steadily. "I don't know how he felt about the fact that I'd stopped even *writing* to my siblings when I was on campaign with him with more than pallid holiday and birthday greetings by the time I was twelve. I don't know how he felt about the fact that my mother had to all but *scruff* me -- from a distance -- to keep me from treating her the same way --" 

"Did he --" 

"*He* wrote to *all* of them *religiously*, son. *Especially* your grandmother. He loved her..." Treville licks his lips. "As I grew into my power as a -- relatively -- weak earth-mage, I could smell them around each other. Smell their passion *for* each other. It settled things in my heart... and made other things more difficult," Treville says, and smiles ruefully again. "But... he never pushed me in those ways. And he never asked me to push myself. When I lost him -- and them -- I had no one's disappointment but my own to flay myself with." 

Porthos winces hard. "Sir..." 

"I don't know if I answered your question." 

"You did, sir. I mean -- you don't know. And *neither* of us *can* know. Not if he wanted to keep you to himself. Especially since -- I mean, he was *giving* you to his *men* when he wasn't there, yeah?" 

Treville inclines his head. "Specifically *ordering* them to teach me the things he didn't have *time* to teach." 

"That. That had to have *killed* him. I mean... don't you think?" 

Treville takes a long drink and obviously *thinks* about that question. 

"No? You think he was all *right* with you picking up all those *life* lessons and *soldiering* lessons --" 

"I think... that he was *exactly* a good enough *courtier* by the time *I* was old enough to pay attention to things like that... that I never *saw* it hurting him, as opposed to seeing him being *eager* to have me *near*. *Always* eager. Always ready. Always..." Treville licks his lips. "I never *once* felt, from him, a sense that he would rather I take my time and attention and need for *more* somewhere *else* -- and we could take that for an answer in and of itself. But..." 

"But, yeah. His *men* would've maybe been at *least* a *little* less comfortable around you if the General made them feel like they were stealing your time, and *they* were old enough to know what was what." 

"Just so, son," Treville says, and toasts him. 

They drink -- "Fuck, sir, I want -- so much *more*," Porthos says, and laughs hard. 

Treville hums. "You'll have it, son. *Every* day. But..." He raises his eyebrows. "Do my fixations and perversions make any more sense?" 

"First off, don't talk about it that way, sir --" 

"Son." 

"Sodding *don't*." 

"*Son* --" 

"If I *let* you talk about it that way? Then I have to go around calling bloody *ten*-year-olds deviants --" 

Treville splutters -- 

"And don't *tell* me if you were any younger than that --" 

"All right, son. I won't," Treville says, and smiles *benignly*. 

"You *arse* --" 

Treville laughs *hard* -- "Oh, son -- oh, *son*, you're perfect, but listen --" 

"Bloody *no*." 

Treville *wheezes* -- 

"And if you *spill* that wine, I'll get the *third* bottle, which is even *worse* --" 

"That's right, son, work your way steadily downward --" 

"I try, I try -- but, seriously, sir," Porthos says, and sobers himself a little. 

Treville takes a breath and does the same. "I'm listening, son." 

"This -- I have no bloody idea why you're like this, but you don't know, *either*. Maybe there's something even *you* can't remember --" 

"I --" 

"Or maybe this is just how you were always meant to be, eh?" 

Treville blinks at him. "Son...?" 

"They always said -- the witches I came up around, I mean -- they always said that the All-Mother *loved* Her children, absolutely *all* of Her children, no matter *how* strange they were." 

"That's right, son -- and I think you felt a little of that...?" 

"I *did*. In *your* memory!" 

"Good --" 

"But -- they *also* said that She *made* children. Just sometimes, you know, but they said that sometimes She would take special bloody *notice* of -- of a *seed* --"

"Son --" 

"That sometimes She would just -- just *twist* things a little -- or a *lot* -- to change the way that seed --" 

"Son -- I have to ask you to stop." 

*Porthos* blinks. "Sir? That... was too much?" 

Treville licks his lips -- and coughs a laugh. "Yes." 

"Then I apologize --" 

"No, son, I --" 

"Bloody *yes*, sir!" 

Treville laughs *harder* -- "Right you are, son. I *accept* your apology. Mm?" 

Porthos nods once. "Now tell me *why* it was too much, eh? So I won't *trip* over something like it again." 

"I..." Treville offers one of those soft smiles again. "Only this, son: It's too much, for me, to think about my love for *any* of the people I've loved over the course of my life being... dictated." 

"Oh. But that's not --" 

Treville holds up his free hand. "I know that's not what you *meant*, son -- and, more to the point, I *mostly* know that that isn't what the All-Mother would *do*. My conversations with Her have touched on matters *close* to this --" 

"*Oh* -- but. It's still too much." 

Treville inclines his head. "And, for that, you have *my* apologies. And a great *deal* of my curiosity." 

Porthos blinks. "Sir?" 

"You're a lot less *disturbed* by this prospect... well." And Treville raises his eyebrows. 

"Oh, well, 's just fate, isn't it? People talk about fate all the time. If we're not supposed to be disturbed by *that*..." And Porthos shrugs. 

Treville stares at him. 

"No, sir?" 

"I..." 

"Mm?" 

"Are you... religious?" 

"Well... no? I mean, now I guess I'm going to *have* to be, since I *have* a goddess --" 

"You truly do, and I'll teach you -- I." Treville licks his lips and looks pained. 

"Sir?" 

"I..." He laughs again. "I think the best way to put it is that *I'm* often *wildly* disturbed by the fact that I have a goddess, son. I do my level best to think about it as little as possible." 

"*Really*?" 

"Think about who I *am*, son --" 

"*Mum's* *mate*!" 

"Ah, well, she tended to beat me -- and *Jean-Armand* me -- for the amount of effort I put into not thinking about the numinous --" 

"I would've done the same!" 

"-- *but*? *You* would've beaten *both* of us once upon a time, because your mother's *guardians* had to literally chase her all over *Paris* to get her to sit still for *her* lessons, once upon a time." 

Porthos -- stares. 

Treville *winks* at him, eyes bright and merry. "Ife told me once that that was how she, Lara, and Layo *first* came to terms with me being your mother's mate: Only someone as stubborn and belligerent and *wildly* inappropriate as I was *could* have been visited upon Amina as punishment for all *her* sins." 

"I... are they..." Porthos swallows. 

Treville smiles gently again. "Ife is still alive, son. She lives on my lands outside Paris, and she would love to see you again." 

"Again -- oh. She could tell me what Mum was like as a girl..." 

"Prepare for a lot of growling. Fond, loving, nostalgic growling," Treville says, and laughs more. 

Porthos snorts. "*Right*. I um..." He kicks Treville's right boot gently. 

Treville grins. "Yes, son...?"

"You're an easy man to talk to, sir," Porthos says, and smiles ruefully and blushes a little. 

Treville rumbles. "Son, if you were any easier to talk to, some damned bishop would've tried to make a *priest* out of you --" 

"*Augh*!" 

"Exactly, so watch that --" 

Porthos snickers and salutes Treville as obscenely as *possible* -- 

Treville grins. "Oh, son. One day you're *going* to do that in public --" 

"*Shit* --" 

"Possibly in front of Louis --" 

"Shit shit *shit* --" 

Treville lolls his *tongue* -- 

Porthos grabs up his hat and *swats* him with it. 

Treville sounds like he's *choking* on his tongue -- 

"You earned that!" 

"I most *assuredly* did, son, I --" He coughs a few times and grins *broadly*. "Oh, son, I --" He licks his lips. "What can I do to talk you into moving *in* with me, mm?" 

"Oh --" 

"What can I do to talk you into letting me *adopt* you?" 

"*Shit* -- uh."


	6. Sometimes I think about writing a pick-up artist/seduction manual for Treville. And then I realize that the first few chapters would be all about learning the adoption laws in your area.

Treville raises his eyebrows exactly like he expects Porthos to have an *answer* to that question, exactly like he expects Porthos to -- 

To have been *right* here for all of *this* conversation, this *night* -- 

"Don't do that, son," Treville says, and -- touches him.

Touches him *inside*, *fuck* -- 

"Shh. Just reminding you that I can *feel* it when you start beating yourself up, son. I'll give you your privacy -- I promise," Treville says, and makes a very *serious* promise with his eyes. 

And that -- "All right, *fine*, but I wasn't *beating* on myself, sir --" 

"You were *about* to, son. About to start *insisting* that because we've been talking about all the things we've *been* talking about for the length of *time* we've been talking... that *you* should -- somehow -- be ready to accept absolutely everything about me." And Treville raises an eyebrow. 

Porthos blinks... a lot. 

Treville raises that eyebrow *higher* -- 

"Right, fine, *got* it, sir --" 

"Yes...?" 

"*Yes*, sir, I was rushing myself *and* about to beat on myself, and I was wrong to do it." 

Treville nods in satisfaction. 

"But... uh." 

"Mm?" 

"That was a *lot* of information you picked up about me just by touching my spirit like you did, sir." And Porthos *looks* at Treville. 

Treville *blinks* -- and then nods once and looks him dead in the eye. 

"Sir?" 

(Son.) 

"*Shit* --"

Treville nods again. (We can know everything about each other. *Anything*, at any time --) 

Shit shit SHIT shit --

(It doesn't matter how far apart we are from each other. It won't *always* matter that we don't *want* to know these things about each other all the *time* --) 

FUCK -- "Uh. Uh. Sir? Could you..." 

"Aloud, son?" 

"Please," Porthos says, and drinks, and smiles ruefully. "That was -- uh. But you did say you were *bound* to Mum." 

"While you were in the womb, son. We were, in truth, *all* bound to each *other*. You had no *choice* about whether or not to be bound to your mother and me -- and the All-Mother was not best pleased about that --" 

"Shit, *really*?" 

"She doesn't take kindly to her *children* being bound against their will, son. It's slavery, plain and simple, and, in some ways, it's an even more *terrible* kind of slavery than the humans came up with all on their own," Treville says, and raises that teaching eyebrow.

Porthos blinks -- and stares. "I'm -- your *slave*?" 

"*When* you gain more control over the power you're *rapidly* growing into, and I've taught you every little trick I've learned *about* the power we share, we'll have a great deal of power over each *other*." 

"Right, that's what I *thought*." 

"*Until* then, however, I can take control over your power, over your mind, and over your spirit *nearly* any time I *want* to, son." 

"Fuck..." 

"I *won't* --" 

"I *know* that!" 

Treville winces. "I won't unless I *have* to." 

"Uh. What the bloody hell does *that* mean?" 

"It means, son, that you're growing -- rapidly -- into a shifter, and that you're *going* to want to make love with people who *aren't* shifters --" 

"What does that..." Porthos blinks and feels himself *blanching*. "I'll shift when I'm making *love* to someone?" 

"At least a little *every* time you make love -- make *love* -- with someone. Many shifters can *fuck* with impunity... but *you* don't fuck much, at all. Do you." 

"*Shit*."

"So, I'll *ask* you to keep me *posted* when you plan to get your ashes hauled for the next little while, son --" 

"So you can -- so you can *what*?" 

Treville makes -- a tugging motion. And smiles wryly. "I'll be yanking your lead, son. When and *only* when you need it yanked. Other than that? You won't feel me, at all." 

And that... doesn't sound that bad, actually.

Maybe a little more *crowded* than what he's gotten accustomed to since he'd moved away from the Court, away from Flea and Charon -- 

Since he'd *lost* all the *others*... 

Porthos licks his lips and -- thinks about it. 

Just *thinks* about it. What it would be *like* to have someone in his *head* whenever he wanted it, whenever he needed it, whenever he was making *love*. 

To -- never be alone. 

Not ever. 

Not ever *again*. 

Treville shivers in Porthos's other chair -- and Porthos realizes that *he* can feel *him* thinking. 

Thinking that *Porthos* is thinking about using their spiritual connection to stay *physically* distant and -- hating that, more than a little. 

"Son, it's all right. If you don't want --" 

"Sir, it's not that. I -- you can feel that, can't you?" And Porthos *hopes* -- 

And Treville takes a *breath* -- and hums. "I can feel that you want a bit more time to think about moving in with me. I'll give you that time." 

"Thank you, sir. I... I definitely want you in my *head*." 

Treville grins. "Yes...?" (Like this...?) 

Um uh uh -- Do you like it?

(I'll always prefer hearing my beautiful son's voice --)

"Then --" 

(Son. What do *you* want. Mm?) 

And Porthos can *feel* how much Treville wants to *give* him what he wants, wants to *feed* him what he wants, wants to be the *source* of what he *craves* -- 

Porthos shivers and catches himself sliding down in his chair -- 

Spreading his *legs* -- 

(Oh, son... do you want that...?) 

Porthos blushes *hard* -- "I -- I..." 

(You can have anything, son. Anything, at any time,) Treville says, setting his tumbler down and letting his hands dangle between his knees. (Anything for my *boy*.) 

"Sir, I -- fuck, I don't even know what I *want* with you!" 

(We can think about that together, son. Nice and slow. Nice and easy...) 

Porthos moans -- 

(You like that, too. Good to know...) 

"No, I -- I'm *like* this. With -- uh. The boys and girls at the brothels."

Treville rumbles and smiles. (You take care of them. Don't you.) 

"Yes -- yes, sir --" 

(You take care of them soft and sweet and *gentle*... until they're *begging* for your big, fat cock.) 

"Fuck -- fuck, I -- yeah --" 

(My boy needs that. Needs... mm. Every last bit of that...) 

"Please --" 

(Those soft, *sweet* voices. That soft skin. Those tender young bodies... and you can protect them, can't you.) 

"I -- I *can* --" 

(You can chase away the bastards who only want to hurt them -- beat them down into early graves --) 

"*Yes*!" 

(And then come back and... ease the little ones.) 

"Please just -- I *need* to, sir, I *need* --" 

(Ease them for hours and hours and *hours* at a time...) 

"Just -- when I *can* --" 

(Ease them... the way you'd like to be eased,) Treville says, and there's a weight to his words, a *feeling* -- 

But no actual pressure. 

No -- 

A *weight*, and that means Porthos has to think about it, *has* to, and -- 

Maybe it is pressure, after all. 

Maybe it's that *binding*. 

That -- slavery.

That -- and Daddy's *eyebrow* is up, and it's *not* the teaching* eyebrow, it's the *questioning* eyebrow. He's. 

He's *asking* Porthos, right now, if he *wants* the pressure. This *particular* pressure that Porthos can feel in his throat, in his spine, in his sodding *bollocks*, and it just makes him want to spread his legs wider -- 

Get -- 

Get *open* -- 

Get *spread* -- 

Get -- right down on the floor, maybe, on his knees, and it would feel *exactly* that good, because it's not like he *hasn't* had that fantasy of Treville!

Of bloody *course* he has! It's *Treville*, and he'd thanked him for every caress *and* every slap -- 

He'd thanked him for every *deep* stroke of his cock, too. 

He'd called him *sir* when he *hadn't* called him *Daddy* -- 

And the pressure is gone, just like that. 

Porthos *gasps*, blinks, whimpers -- "Sir --" 

"Shh, son. I apologize for how sudden that was -- but. We need to put the brakes on for just a moment." 

"I -- I -- please, sir, I want it, I want you, I want your *pressure* --" 

"Shh, I know you do, son --" 

"Do you -- not want me to talk anymore?" 

Treville growls low and *hard*. "That will *never* be true, son... though I might take your *words* for one game or another. We'll see." 

*Fuck* -- "Yes, sir --" 

"But... tell me who I *am* to you when you're under my *yoke*. Tell me who you need me to *be*," Treville says, and... his eyes are more than a little wild. More than a little *starved*. 

This -- this has been making Treville aroused. *Hungry* -- 

"That's right, son. You're incredible in your need -- and I'm going to *make* you even more so," Treville says, and just -- 

Just fucking *leaves* that there -- 

Like Porthos is really going to have a *brain* in his *head* -- no. No, he can do this. He can be good. He can be *right*. 

This -- it's a dream. It's a bloody fantasy and it's so much *wilder* than that that Porthos can only *barely* wrap his head around it. He's *not* going to mess it up. 

"*Son* --" 

"Sir," Porthos says, just as firm and steadily as he can. "Even when I was calling you 'sir' in my best fantasies of you? I was *wishing* you were my father. I just couldn't get it out of my *mouth*. Not even in the fantasy." 

Treville's growl this time is sharp as a punch. "I note the past *tense*, son." 

"I --" But he's groaning again, he's sweating and *panting* -- 

He's staring and *flexing* in his breeches -- 

"Please -- *please*, sir --" 

"Do you feel me, son?" 

"I feel -- I feel your pressure, your *power*, sir --" 

"My power *over* you." 

"*Yes*, sir --" 

"I can do anything to you, son..." 

"I can *feel* it!" 

"And I can make some things... just a little easier," Treville says, standing and moving to stand *over* him. "Call me what you *want* to call me, son." 

Porthos flushes *hard* --

Treville's eyes *flare* a hot, *wild* blue -- "Don't even *think* about refusing me." 

Porthos *grunts* -- and, suddenly, it seems as though there's nothing left in his *mind* but the need to -- "Daddy -- Daddy, *please*!" 

Treville -- *Daddy* smiles *slowly*. *Hotly*. "How does that feel, son...?" 

"I -- I -- *shit* --" 

"Shh," Daddy says, and caresses Porthos's face. "Tell me," he says, and uses *force* on Porthos's spirit -- 

"It felt like you took my bloody *mind* away, Daddy! All -- all of my *thoughts*. All of my *objections*." 

"Just that...?" 

"No! You took away everything I was *afraid* of, too! I don't even know where all that shite *went*. Please, just --" 

"Shh," Daddy says, and caresses him again, with the back of his hand. "It'll all be back -- when I give it to you --" 

"*Fuck* --" 

"And I *will* give it back to you, son. It just won't be on *your* time... unless you *need* it to be. Do you understand?" 

Porthos pants and pants and -- croons, long and low and helpless and *animal*. 

"Oh, my beautiful *boy*," Daddy says, and strokes Porthos's mouth with his thick, callused thumb. "Don't worry. I'll guide you through absolutely everything -- *including* this. Now do you *understand*." 

Porthos blushes and blushes and nods and blushes *more*, and bloody well doesn't want to *ask* his question -- 

"But you will anyway," Daddy says, and *forces* -- 

Porthos *grunts* -- "*Fuck* -- will you always take *care* of me?" And -- he can't help but see Daddy's cock jerk hard in his trousers -- 

See his eyes get even wilder, *feel* his *spirit* get wild, just for that question, for that *need* -- 

For that need to -- take care of his son. 

"*Always*, son," Daddy says, and that was more growled than anything else -- it was practically *chewed*. "I will *always* take care of you --" 

"Fuck fuck -- *please* --" 

"And you... will not hide your questions from me when we're like this. Not your questions, not your statements, not your wordless *sounds*. You will give me *everything* of yourself, son -- and you will do it without hesitation or *pause*," Daddy says, and looks into him so *hungrily*, so -- 

So *wildly* -- 

Porthos can't stop *staring* -- until he realizes that Daddy's eyebrows are up. That Daddy is *asking* him if he *can* apply force -- 

That he's giving Porthos one last *choice* -- but he's known since he's known *Daddy* that it didn't matter how much *force* Daddy used on someone; he'd still always give a man the chance to walk away from it.

Right now... 

Right now, a very large part of Porthos wants every chance and choice taken away. Just -- 

"Please. Please, Daddy. Don't -- don't ask anymore. Please just *don't*." 

Daddy lowers his eyebrows *slowly* -- and forces all those choices right away. Porthos gasps and gasps as he feels them go, as he feels the equivalent of a *massive* hand wrapped all *round* him and *squeezing* -- 

He slides down and down onto his knees -- 

Daddy tugs Porthos's scarf off and pushes a hand into his *hair*. "My boy... do you like it down there? Mm?" 

Porthos moans and nuzzles at the *massive* bulge in Daddy's trousers for an answer. 

Daddy laughs softly and tugs *gently* on Porthos's hair. "Give me a *better* answer, son. You know your Daddy always wants your voice..." 

Oh -- he *had* known that! He'd forgotten! "Sorry, Daddy! I won't do it again!" 

"Shh, you did nothing wrong, son," Daddy says, and smiles down at him so warmly. "I've always loved warm, sweet, loving boys like you..." 

Porthos moans again and just -- he's not -- 

He's not a *boy* -- 

He *isn't* -- but. If that's what Daddy wants from him...

Daddy hums and tugs on Porthos's hair again -- 

Porthos had looked down. "Um. Sorry, Daddy --" 

"Shh. You've done nothing to apologize for. I promise." 

"Uh. No?" 

Daddy *rumbles*... and pushes his fingers through Porthos's hair once -- 

Again -- 

*Again* -- 

And Porthos realizes that *he's* bloody rumbling, too. That --

*Fuck* -- 

"Shh, son. It's all right. You're *going* to respond powerfully to being petted now -- far more powerfully than you ever have before." 

"I -- um." 

"But it feels good. Doesn't it." 

"Yes, Daddy, but --" 

"It feels... right." 

Porthos shivers, all *over* -- 

He's pushing up *against* Daddy's petting hand -- 

He's rumbling *more* -- "I -- I -- *please*!" 

*Daddy* rumbles. "My boy has something to say to me?" 

Porthos feels himself flushing *hot* -- and realizes that he's *been* feeling that pressure, that *force* -- 

That he's been feeling it make *demands* of him -- 

That -- fuck, the moment he'd had the *thought* about Daddy wanting Porthos to be his boy, the pressure had gotten *powerful*! 

"No, son. The moment you started thinking about keeping back your *discomfort* with that idea." 

"Oh -- shit --" 

"And, when the force gets especially... forceful?" And Daddy just -- 

Just *pushes* -- 

Pushes Porthos's spirit *down* -- 

And suddenly Porthos is crooning, yipping, panting and *trying* to loll his short tongue -- 

Trying to -- to be a *dog* -- 

Daddy is taking the *man* away from him! He -- 

"In truth, son... you're taking the man away from *yourself*. By trying to *hide* from your Daddy even though we both know you shouldn't do anything of the kind..." 

Porthos croons more and whimpers, *whimpers*, turns enough to lick Daddy's wrist and promise to do better, to try harder, to give Daddy his *best* the way he'd promised to do his very first *day* at the garrison -- 

Daddy inhales sharply and *growls* -- "My *son*..." 

Please please please --

Daddy *grips* Porthos's hair -- 

Porthos *whines* -- 

And Daddy forces Porthos to look *up*, to meet his *wild* blue eyes, to -- 

Daddy licks his lips and most of his *face* -- 

Daddy *growls* again -- "My. *Son*." 

Porthos nods and nods and -- 

"I'm going to... ease the pressure on you in just a moment. A little. Enough that you can speak to me. Enough that you can *give* me the man in you." 

And Porthos wants to tell him that he'll be good, that he'll be worth it, he'll always be *worth* it -- 

"You're worth everything, son. All of me. *All* of me -- and every last bit of my *force*, whenever and however you earn it." 

Porthos croons a helpless *question* -- 

And Daddy makes a soft noise and pets Porthos's mouth. "My boy... you earn it with your misbehaviour, of course -- but we both know that fundamentally good boys like you, fundamentally good *students* like you, only get *better* with the correction and discipline of a good... master."

Porthos's cock jerks *hard* in his trousers -- 

His breeches are *slick* -- 

And he's whining, just whining, just -- tugging against Daddy's *grip* on his hair and trying to get to the fingers *near* his mouth, trying to get to Daddy's *groin* -- 

"You're hungry for me, son...?" 

Porthos nods and nods and croons *helplessly* -- 

"You're hungry to... please me...?" 

Porthos whimpers and tugs *harder* -- 

"*Stay*." 

Porthos yips and -- obeys, just -- 

He stills himself, all over, and -- 

He can't hold back a *shiver* -- 

"Oh, son... mm. Your eagerness *commends* you. I promise. But we have a few things to clear up first... and I need the man in you very, very badly." 

Porthos blinks and looks *up* -- 

And Daddy is smiling wryly, warmly, *softly* -- even as he grips Porthos's hair *hard*. 

Porthos croons *quietly*. 

"Yes, son. There'll be other times. *Many* of them. The dogs in both of us *will* get their due -- *all* of their due. But, for our *first* time..." And Daddy caresses Porthos's cheek with the back of his free hand again. "Come to me, son. Come *back* to me." 

He strokes again -- 

*Again*, and it seems like the strangest *possible* thing that Porthos can't feel the muzzle he *knows* he has -- 

Daddy *laughs* softly -- "Not quite, son. Keep coming," he says, and now Porthos can *feel* the pressure being eased, little by little -- 

Just -- 

Bit by bit by -- 

"Daddy..." 

Daddy licks his lips. "Every time you *say* that... I get harder, son." 

Porthos shivers. "I want that. I want to make you hard for me -- all the time." 

"Then keep being *precisely* who you are, son. And talk to me about being... my good boy," Daddy says, and raises an eyebrow. 

Porthos blushes hard and *tries* to say something about it not being *important* right now, and also, hey, look at him right here on his knees!

What actually comes *out* is: 

"'m not a boy. I'm not -- I'm *no* man's boy --" 

"Not even *mine*...?" And that was the *Captain's* growl, the Captain's hardest, meanest -- 

Porthos *shudders* for it, because his knees have *absolutely* gotten watery for it more than *once* -- but -- 

"You were my *man* even when you were bent right over and taking my cock, yes, I see," Daddy says, flaring his nostrils and nodding -- 

"I -- I'm sorry --" 

"Shh, son. You still haven't done *anything* wrong," Daddy says, and cocks his head to the side. "I have absolutely no objections to having you -- in every *possible* way -- *as* my fully-adult son." 

"Um. No? And I mean -- it's not -- it's not that I think there's anything *wrong* --" 

"No, son. And you *do* think there's something wrong with it -- for *your* needs," Daddy says, and strokes Porthos's mouth with his hardest calluses. "I can make some *vaguely* educated guesses about why, but I'd dearly love to talk to you about it..." 

"... now?" 

Daddy barks a laugh. "No. Now is for... all the things which give us *both* pleasure, son." 

Porthos takes a *relieved* breath -- 

"Though I will say one last thing on the subject, for now: Your *dog* will always have strong, personal, and *deep* opinions about many, many things, and some of those things will surprise you -- and catch you off-guard." 

Porthos frowns. "You're saying that one of those things -- oh. The dog in me... won't really object to being your boy," he says, and blinks, and blushes hard, because he can feel it, feel it *rising* in him -- 

The need to *be* a good boy for *this* man in particular -- 

And for the dog inside him, too. 

Porthos pants and tries to get away from it, to shove it *back* -- 

"Shh, son, not that --" 

"I can't -- I *can't* --" 

"*Easy*." 

Porthos grunts and *whuffs* out a breath -- 

Feels the dog in him just -- just sit down and perk up at *once* -- 

Fuck fuck fuck *fuck* -- 

And then Daddy is *yanking* his head back by the hair -- 

Forcing Porthos to look *up* -- 

When had he looked *down* -- no, no, Daddy's eyes are gleaming, hot and *gleaming*, and Porthos has to focus, has to -- 

(Breathe for me, son. Do it now.) 

Has to breathe, has to breathe for his Daddy, has to do *right* -- 

(Shh. Just breathe. That's all you have to do right now.) 

That. I. Nothing else, Daddy?

(Nothing, son. You have to get your breathing just right for me...) 

Porthos moans -- Yes, Daddy! 

And -- he breathes, just like he was taught to do for his conditioning exercises, just like he used to try to *imagine* the Captain learning how to do when he was young -- 

Used to imagine the Captain scowling and growling and *glaring* through until *his* superior officers ran the bloody hell *away* - 

Daddy splutters a little. "Son." 

I'm breathing, Daddy!

"Mm. That you are. Please try to remember that I was once a young and small boy, just like the *overwhelming* majority of recruits..."

Well, *yeah*, but... 

"Yes, son...?" 

I *saw* that memory, Daddy. You had that glare perfected *early*. 

Daddy snorts. "I *may* have been a *somewhat* belligerent child, but --" 

The General loved you just that way, Porthos says, and nods the little bit he can in Daddy's grip. 

"That he did, son," Daddy says, and sighs. "Breathe a little slower."

Yes, Daddy -- 

"Slow and gentle... mm. Nice and easy for me." 

Anything -- 

"We did already establish that you liked this. Didn't we," Daddy says, and -- loosens his grip on Porthos's hair. Gentles it. 

Oh -- 

"Shh. Keep breathing," Daddy says, and pets him -- 

And caresses him -- 

And pets him more -- 

Porthos can't keep his eyes *open* all the way -- 

"That's right, son. Slow it down and relax for me..." 

Yes, Daddy... 

Daddy sighs again. "You're so beautiful, son. So *perfect*. I want everything with you. Or -- mm. No, there's a better way to put that." 

There is? 

"Yes, son: There is not one thing I *don't* want with you -- except for the things which would hurt you in ways you *didn't* love." 

Oh. 

"Different, isn't it? The *first* way puts just a little bit too much pressure on my beautiful son -- " 

I -- 

"Pressure that I *categorically* neither intended nor *desired*, son. Do you see?" 

And that... Porthos swallows. "You'd enjoy me being your boy, but not so much that you'd manipulate me into it, or even work with the dog in me to get it *out* of me -- if you knew I didn't want it." 

Daddy strokes through Porthos's beard and rumbles. "I *already* know you don't want it, son. I'm going to be doing everything in my power to keep the dog in you from pushing you into things you're not ready for until you're more able to take control of your own twinned soul." 

"I." And Porthos swallows again and -- doesn't lower his head. Daddy's made it clear that he doesn't want that. "'s just. I wasn't safe when I was a boy, sir. I was *never* safe, not after Mum was gone. I had to be a man grown before I was anything like secure, before I felt remotely comfortable... relaxing. That's all." 

Daddy narrows his eyes and *burns* at him like the *violent* end of nations all over the *world* -- and then he stops, and takes a breath. "Your point is made, son. I *suspected* it was *something* like that, but..." He shakes his head. "I would like to revisit every terrible, bad, problematic, or even vaguely *unpleasant* moment of your past --" 

"And uh.. rewrite them as violently for the other people as possible?" 

Daddy grins. "You know me so well, son..." 

Porthos snorts -- 

Daddy grins wider -- and wilder -- "I always want your happiness, son. I always want your laughter." 

"Even -- when I'm on my knees." 

"Sometimes especially then, son," Daddy says, and flares his nostrils again -- 

Again -- 

"You like that." 

"I um. I've always liked making, you know, the people who submitted to me -- I've loved making them laugh. Laugh their *minds* away, if possible." 

"*While* they were *spending* themselves mindless, too, I'd wager..." 

"*Yes*, Daddy. It's -- it's incredible. And -- you know that for yourself." 

"I do, son," Daddy says, and smiles broadly, brightly -- 

He's *obviously* looking at filthy memories -- 

*Happy* memories -- 

Porthos licks his lips helplessly -- 

"They're all yours, son," Daddy says, blinking himself back to *this* room just like that. 

"Oh -- I." 

"They're *all* yours, whenever you'd like them. Everything *about* me is yours." 

Porthos shivers and -- "Please. I -- please let me --" 

"You want me to take my pleasure of you. Don't you." 

Porthos moans -- "Please, *yes* -- *mm* -- " 

And Daddy has two thick, callused fingers pressed to Porthos's mouth again, forcing Porthos *quiet* again -- "Not for long, son. Just this: You've not had nearly enough time on your knees to men like *me*." 

Porthos *blinks* -- and raises his eyebrows. Slowly, like. 

Daddy barks another laugh. "Oh, son. You'll learn. I'll -- mm. I'll teach you *everything*." 

Porthos flushes hard, cock jerking -- 

Daddy growls low for long moments -- and then *drags* his fingers off Porthos's mouth and nods. "I think... yes. Up off your knees, son. We're starting things off a little differently today." 

Porthos shivers and stands. "Yes, Daddy?" 

"Oh, yes. I have to *teach* my son. My beautiful --" Daddy growls again. "*Strip*," he says, and his eyes flare *hot*. 

"Fuck --" Porthos moves *fast* to obey, working off his belts -- 

His weapons were already stowed, except for his -- 

"Leave that extra dagger right where it is, son. I like the looks of it," Daddy says, and starts walking round and round him -- 

Starts looking him *over* -- 

Examining him for *fitness* -- 

Porthos's *hands* start shaking *immediately* -- 

"You're beautiful, son. *Magnificent*. The first time I saw you naked, when we were all washing ourselves down as quickly as possible in that icy stream we'd found while we were on maneuvers..." 

Porthos blinks -- "Daddy...?" 

"Keep. *Stripping*," Daddy says, and laughs *filthily*.

"Yes, Daddy!" And Porthos *obeys* -- 

"Good son. Good..." Daddy growls. "The *first* time, son, and you were laughing *meanly* at all the men who had grown accustomed to having their water *heated* just a little." 

"Oh --" 

"You were *teasing* them by washing yourself *slowly* in that frigid water, ignoring your own gooseflesh and laughing harder when the other men would shudder violently and *leap* out of the stream as if it were full of especially carnivorous *devils*." 

Porthos *coughs* -- 

"And you were... flushed with the cold. Your beautiful dark nipples looked hard enough to *hurt*. Your *cock* was soft... but your bollocks were drawing up. Just a little. I started to dream of warming you. Of chafing your skin with my hands until it reddened up under the brown. Of breathing *hot* against your hands. Your ears. The nape of your *neck*. I started to dream of any number of things to keep you *laughing* until you were too bloody *hard* to do *anything* but spend for me. For *me*." 

Porthos stares and -- and just -- "I would've -- I wouldn't have said no to *any* of that, sir -- *Daddy* --" 

"Shh," Daddy says, stepping on the *knot* of Porthos's trousers and breeches and encouraging Porthos to step out of them -- 

"Yes, Daddy --" 

"Shh, shh. Do you want me to be your Captain right now? Mm? I *promise* the Captain can still make you... feel," he says, and uses that -- that *pressure* -- 

Porthos groans and sways on his *feet* -- 

"Get the rest of those clothes *off*, son!" And that was the Captain, it was, it *was* -- 

Porthos can't help but stiffen his spine and *move*, but -- 

"But *what*." 

Porthos *yanks* his shirt off and tosses it *away*. "I want. I want my Daddy," he says, and he's blushing -- he's all but *mumbling* -- 

That's not -- 

"Please, I -- I want my Daddy." 

Daddy takes in a *sharp* breath -- 

*Growls* again -- 

"Then that's what you'll have. Anytime you want me. Anytime you *need* me," Daddy says, and *grips* Porthos by the bollocks -- 

"*Fuck* --" 

"I'm always here, son. I'm always..." And Daddy leans in and *sniffs* at the join of Porthos's throat to his shoulder. "I'm always right here for you." 

"Please please please --" 

"I'll take care of you, son," Daddy says, and wraps his other hand around Porthos's cock -- 

"Oh --" 

"Spread your legs just a... oh, that's perfect, son. Brace yourself good and strong for me..." 

"Yes, Daddy, I -- I --" 

"I have to *teach* my son just how his body *works* now," Daddy says, and he's smiling so *wickedly* -- 

*Confusingly* -- 

And then he strokes down to the *base* of Porthos's cock and squeezes *firmly* -- 

And everything goes white behind Porthos's eyes, everything goes hot, goes wild, goes -- 

Porthos is howling and *dancing* on his feet, howling and *shoving* into Daddy's fist like a *boy* -- 

"Like an animal, son..." 

"I -- what -- *what*?" 

"Like an *animal*... with a growing *knot*," Daddy says, and raises the *teaching* eyebrow. 

Porthos's jaw drops -- 

He looks *down* -- 

Daddy opens his hand *immediately* -- but that's bloody tragic, and also Porthos can't tell if there's anything different, yet, or *not*. 

Daddy laughs softly. "It's more about temperature and texture than any visual differences at this point, son." 

"... temperature?" 

"You're going to be much, much hotter than other men..." 

"Oh. I. Mum was always so *warm* -- *you're* warm --" 

"Shifters don't have all *that* many obvious differences from humans in the grand scheme of things, son. But we're... touching on quite a few of them," Daddy says, lolling his tongue and closing his *fist* around Porthos's cock again -- 

"Please --" 

Doing it so *gently* -- 

"*Please* --" 

"Do you want to be stroked? Mm?" 

Porthos *coughs* a laugh -- "I -- *Daddy* --" 

"Or... do you, perhaps, want a bit more of *this*," Daddy says, and *squeezes* again -- 

Right at the base -- 

Right on -- on Porthos's growing *knot* -- 

Porthos howls *helplessly*, and he *knows* he's gripping at Daddy's shoulders, clutching at him *convulsively* -- 

He can't -- he can't let *go* -- 

"*Don't* let go, son. Hold me *tight*. *Bruise* me --" 

"F-*fuck* --" 

"Let me feel my *son*," Daddy says, and squeezes *again* -- 

Porthos sobs and howls *more* -- 

"Let me *feel* you, son... just the way you. Feel. *Me*." And Daddy is *pumping* Porthos's knot, making Porthos dance for it, making Porthos's cock jerk and spasm, making it just -- 

It feels like it's *spitting* slick -- 

"That's because it *is*, son. All *over* me --" 

Porthos whines and shivers and *spasms* more -- 

"All over my *hands*. All over my *clothes*. I'll smell like you all night, son. I'll smell like I *rolled* in your *musk* --" 

"*Daddy* --" 

"I want to, son. I want to roll in you like *filth* --" 

"*Fuck* -- fuck, Daddy -- I -- " 

"Shh, don't try to talk right now, son," Daddy says, and squeezes *hard* -- 

Porthos *screams* a howl -- 

"Do *that*, instead," Daddy says, and starts tossing him *off* -- 

Porthos *chokes* on the howl and gasps, chokes again, *shoves* into Daddy's fist -- 

*Grips* at Daddy's shirt and shoves again -- 

Again-again-*again* -- 

"Oh, *son*... faster than that," Daddy says, and his eyes *gleam* -- 

Porthos *barks* -- 

Blushes and loses his rhythm *completely* -- 

And then Daddy *squeezes* again -- 

Strokes and squeezes on every *downstroke* -- 

Porthos gasps again and *whines* -- 

*Shakes* -- 

"*Fuck* my fist, son," Daddy says, and it's the Captain's growl if it had ever been allowed to sound loving, feel *loving* -- 

It's a growl with *intent*, but the intent *isn't* just to hold Porthos down and *rail* him. It's all about holding him close after, licking him clean, making him *his* -- 

Making him his *always*, and Porthos feels himself falling into it, giving himself *up* for it, staring into Daddy's eyes and rolling his hips -- 

Gripping Daddy's shoulders *harder* and rolling his hips faster, just faster, just -- 

He wants it -- 

He wants -- 

He has to give his Daddy what he *wants* -- 

"That's *right*, son. Just like I have to give my son *everything* he *needs*," Daddy says, and *crushes* Porthos's bollocks right up against Porthos's cock, against his own working *hand* -- 

Porthos *howls* again -- 

Sweats so -- 

He can *smell* himself -- 

"My son is *delicious*," Daddy says, and his tongue is peeking, his eyes are wild, his teeth are *sharper* than they were -- 

"Please --" 

"Will you spend for me, son?" 

"*Please* -- I mean -- *yeah*!" 

"Will you get it *all* over *both* of us?" 

"Yeah -- fuck -- fuck -- " 

"Will you do it for *me*."

"*Hnh* --" 

"Oh, son..." 

"Anything, Daddy! Anything for --" 

And Daddy squeezes with *both* hands -- 

Porthos throws his head back and screams *another* howl -- 

There are *tears* on his cheeks -- 

He can't --

"Face *front*, son!" 

He *jerks* his head back down -- 

"*Spend*."

Porthos's jaw drops for the thought, for the need, for the -- 

But Daddy's already bloody *massaging* his cock, and he's jerking and shaking and pushing-pushing-*shoving* -- 

And then Daddy *growls*, low and flat and *mean* -- 

And Porthos's stomach drops -- 

His hole *flexes* -- 

And he's spurting, just like that, just like -- 

Fuck fuck all over both of them, all *over*, and it feels so *good*, feels so right, feels so right to do it for his *Daddy* -- 

"My *son* --" 

Even though it *smells* different now -- 

"You're *mine*," Daddy says, and he's crowding in close, licking and lapping at the spatters of spend in Porthos's beard -- 

Nipping at Porthos's chin and cheeks and *lips* -- 

"*MINE*!" 

"Yours, Daddy, *yours*!" 

And Porthos can't even bloody *see* -- 

His cock is still *jerking* -- 

There's so much coming *out* of him -- 

Daddy is *walking* him somewhere -- 

Pushing and shoving and -- bloody *manhandling* -- 

Growling under his breath, and -- and suddenly he gives Porthos a *push* -- 

"What --" 

And Porthos is on his *back* on the *bed*, blinking up at the ceiling -- and at all the pretty lights and colours still populating his vision -- and wondering where all the strength in his legs got to. 

He tries to move a little and sit up -- 

"Stay *right* there, son," Daddy says, and -- *he's* at the side of the bed, stripping down fast and *efficiently*. 

Porthos thinks he's just about qualified for that.


	7. We're in Best Night Ever-land, here, for Treville. For Porthos, too -- once Treville *gives him a chance to think about it*.

Daddy snorts. "Son." 

"Daddy, you know *exactly* what you just did to me," Porthos says, and *looks* at him. 

Daddy licks his *lips* -- "I taste you, smell you, feel you on the tips of my still-slick fingers... hrrn. Yes, I *do* know what I just did to you, son..." 

Porthos shivers and *grunts* -- 

And Daddy throws his shirt across the room, and -- 

And his hard, flat belly is -- furry. Not hairy, *furry*. 

"That it is, son," Daddy says, and works on his belts.

"Um." Porthos strokes down over his own rather *softer* belly -- 

Just -- 

Just *checking*... 

"Chances are... your fur will be more like your mother's." 

"Uhh..." 

Daddy *pauses* with his hands on the loosened laces of his trousers -- and then he nods -- 

_And Porthos is in -- a sitting room. A *nice* sitting room, with a lot of comfortable-looking chairs and couches, and one big, round table where everyone is seated --_

_An *odd* sitting room, because the walls are lined with cubbies and hooks and --_

_The walls are *covered* in a *ridiculous* number of well-used and *obviously* well-*loved* weapons. Swords, pistols, muskets, daggers --_

_No newer guns._

_No *fancy* swords._

_These are all *soldiers'* weapons -- and they've damned well all been through at *least* one *bastard* of a war -- but. The table..._

_Daddy is there, and he's laughing his arse off, and so are Lieutenants Kitos and Reynard --_

_But their leathers are different --_

_They're younger. They're -- they're *not* lieutenants --_

_And. Mum is there. Young, healthy --_

_Dark and plump, though she doesn't look pregnant the way she had in that other memory --_

_*She's* laughing --_

_Her eyes are *wild* as she *crows* laughter, releasing her grip on the bottle of wine to slap at the table and stomp --_

_The weirdly-young Kitos reaches to take the bottle from her, shaking his head --_

_The weirdly-young Reynard makes the universal gesture for 'give *me* the next pull off that, mate' --_

_And then, all of a sudden, Mum shifts her *muzzle* and most of the rest of her *head*. Her *ears* are shifted --_

_Her fur is *almost* the same dark brown as her hair, and is full of waves and *curls* --_

_Her teeth are long and *sharp* --_

_She's *snarling* at Kitos --_

_Snapping and *threatening* --_

_Kitos's jaw drops --_

_Reynard's mad green eyes are as wide as *saucers* --_

_Daddy falls off his *chair* laughing --_

_And Kitos slides the bottle back to her._

_Slowly, like._

The memory fades slowly and gently and easily, and Porthos is snickering helplessly up at his Daddy, who is standing beside the bed in *just* loosened breeches. 

*Wet*, loosened -- 

*Translucent* -- 

Daddy laughs softly and *cups* that massive bulge of his. 

Porthos licks his lips. "Anything I can do to convince you to take those *off*, Daddy...?" 

"I can think of a *few*... hmm. But you see what your mother's fur was like?" 

Porthos snorts hard. "Bloody *yes*! I didn't realize Lieutenant Reynard was *capable* of feeling fear like a sane person."

"Of course he is, son. Just threaten to not let him get his ashes hauled for a few days in a row --" 

"Daddy. I *like* having bollocks." 

Daddy makes a show of stroking his beard slowly and thoughtfully. "You could also threaten to... hmm... I..." 

"There's literally *nothing* else. Is there." 

Daddy grins and winks. "He's going to be a bit of a demon about things when he realizes he's made such a problematic impression on one of his *neveux*, son." 

"His -- *fuck*!" 

"Mm. But we don't have to think about that *just* yet..." 

"Uhh... no?" 

And Daddy's gaze has... all the heat in the *world*. "No, son. Spread your legs for me," he says, and the pressure for that -- 

The *need* -- 

Porthos can't *not* do it -- 

Porthos can't *survive* without doing it -- 

He's crooning and aching and *offering* himself -- 

"Oh, I see... that's just a little too much," Daddy says, and lightens his touch, just like that. 

Porthos gasps and blushes *hard* -- "*Daddy* --" 

"You had to feel me, son. You had to think about nothing else -- *nothing* else -- but how much you belong to me," Daddy says, and *looks* at him -- 

Into him -- 

Porthos's *belly* drops -- 

Just -- "Please, Daddy, yes -- *yes*." 

"Tell me what I do to you, son. In those *fantasies* of yours. Tell me... how I *have* you." And the pressure increases for just a moment -- 

Just a *little* -- 

Porthos is moaning and arching *up* -- 

Trying to spread *wider* -- 

Trying to show Daddy his *hole* -- 

"Good son. *Good* son. But tell me. Start with... but. *Do* I ever have you here, son? Right here in this nice, big bed?" 

Porthos blushes hard. It's -- 

Daddy grins. "Yes, son...?" 

"Uh. I feel really... unimaginative, Daddy." 

Daddy raises *both* eyebrows -- and strokes down over his bulge with the side of his thumb -- 

"Fuck --" 

"Because you *didn't* imagine me here, son...?" 

"Um. What?" 

Daddy laughs hard -- and crawls onto the bed *right* between Porthos's legs. 

Just -- on Porthos's *bed*. 

In Porthos's *flat*. 

Right -- 

"Right here, son. *Surrounded* by your scents. Where I *want* to be. Where I *need* to be," Daddy says, and cups the caps of Porthos's knees. "But tell me where I am in your *dreams*." 

Porthos swallows and just -- 

There's a part of him, in this moment, which only wants to tell his Daddy what it had been like to come up in the Court. What his *family* had been like -- every last one of them!

And what sharing fantasies with *them* had been like. 

What -- 

What home had been like, once upon a time, and -- 

And Daddy's flaring his nostrils and looking *into* him -- 

"Shit -- sorry --" 

"Shh. Let's recall that I can *always* give my bollocks a good yank -- and my cock a stern talking-to -- if *you* need us to speak, son." 

"I *don't* -- I." 

"Mm...?" 

"I just..." Porthos smiles ruefully. "I want to. I *want* to talk about it, about *all* of it, with you, and I think... I think I'd gotten used to the idea that that wouldn't happen with anyone *but* Athos." 

Daddy shivers again -- "Son... if there is *anything* I can do to make you more comfortable with me, *happier* with me --" 

"You're doing it, Daddy. You've done it and you *keep* doing it. You're giving me a home again, a *family* again, and -- fuck, you're even making me believe that bloody Lieutenant *Reynard* could be a part of it someday." 

Daddy grins at him, bright and wide and wild and loving and fierce and -- young. He -- 

"You. You *really* look like your Dad when you smile like that." 

Daddy *coughs* -- 

And then *keeps* coughing, reddening up with something that looks like a flush *and* a blush -- 

It. 

"Or... not?" 

"No, I -- son, for a *long* time there were no words *anyone* could *ever* say to me that would make me happier than *those*." 

"Right, I *get* that, but --" 

"I -- ah." And Daddy gives him a *ruefully* merry smile, bright and sparkling. "I *seem* to have hit... hm. Something like a *boundary*, son." 

"Uh. What?" 

Daddy *squeezes* the caps of Porthos's knees -- 

Strokes up and down Porthos's thighs -- 

Looks him over *hotly* and *filthily* -- 

"Fuck -- just tell me --" 

"Son. I..." And Daddy grins *wickedly* at him -- but still ruefully somehow. "I am not at *all* sure how I feel about resembling my father while my father's *grandson* -- *my* son -- looks at me with desire." 

Porthos's jaw -- drops. 

That's -- 

He *stares* -- 

And Daddy is laughing bloody *uproariously* -- 

"I'm not hot for your bloody Dad!" 

"I -- I assure you, son, he was a *wonderful* man --" 

"Would you just --" 

"You would've found... common..." And Daddy is just snickering now. Like the arsehole he is. 

"I should *strangle* you with Mum's scarf over there, you know." 

"You absolutely should, son -- certainly, your mother enjoyed doing just that --" 

"Bloody *hell* --" 

But then that *pressure* hits, takes him over, *works* him over, and Porthos is sweating and groaning, spreading again, *trying* to spread wider than he actually *can* -- 

"Please -- *please*, Daddy --" 

"Mm. We were getting afield, son..." And Daddy strokes *up* Porthos's inner thighs -- 

Up and up and -- 

He's cupping Porthos's bollocks -- 

He's squeezing so -- 

So *hard* -- 

"Please --" 

"Where, son. Where *are* we." 

"Unh -- your office! And -- the woods! And the south barracks washroom! And uh..." 

Daddy raises an eyebrow. "Will you make me force the man out of you again, son...?"

"Shit! *No*. Uh -- it was -- you know, a few of the palaces --" 

"*Really*, now. Was there anyone else *there* at the time?" 

"Uh... pretty much the entire French peerage?" 

Daddy *coughs* again -- but doesn't let *up*. 

Porthos is struggling not to *writhe* -- 

He can smell himself *sweating* -- 

"My son is -- mm. Perfect. And all the little lordlings and fops and ladies and what-not -- they're watching?" 

"Yes, Daddy --" 

"They're watching me *have* you." 

"Uhh... they're watching you have a *few* people, Daddy. The list -- the list *changes*, but there are always several --" 

Daddy sighs *happily* -- and grins. "Dare I ask *why* they're *allowed* to see such a thing, son?"

Porthos groans. "Usually -- uh -- fuck -- please, more --" 

"More of *this*, son...?" And Daddy *pumps* Porthos's bollocks -- 

"Fuck -- fuck -- *yes*. Usually Louis orders you to entertain him! And everyone else!" 

Daddy *snorts* -- 

"You decide to uh. Put a little hair on his bollocks while you're at it." 

Daddy looks at him with so much *love* -- 

Porthos can smell it -- 

Porthos can *feel* it -- 

"That you can, son," Daddy says, and squeezes Porthos's bollocks *hard* -- 

"*FUCK* --" 

"There's really only one problem with that fantasy, as far as I'm concerned..." 

"Y-yeah?" 

"There is not one thing more likely to bring thoughts of *regicide* to my heart than *all* the times Louis has utterly failed to show you men -- *my* men -- even a fraction of the respect you all deserve. That particular fantasy asks me to tolerate him *continuing* to do so at an *intimate* moment with my *son*." 

"*Fuck* -- uh. You'd let Lieutenant Reynard julienne him." 

"With a song in my heart, son. Which is not to say that the fantasy is *entirely* unworkable --" 

"I --" 

"Shh..." And Daddy increases the pressure again -- 

Porthos gasps -- 

Shudders -- 

Flexes *open* -- 

"Oh... there you are," Daddy says, and licks his lips. "My son. We have *options* for getting you fucked blind -- by me, of course -- in front of... powerful people who would, nonetheless, know in their *bones* just how *much* respect you're worth." 

And Porthos can't think -- 

Can't breathe -- 

Can't *imagine* -- 

But then Daddy is lessening the pressure, and Porthos just can't imagine the world he's *living* in right *now*. The world where Treville is his Daddy, and wants to -- *needs* to and *plans* to -- make his dreams come true. 

"There are ways to make it easier... but, with the power at *my* disposal, you would only be *entirely* free of doubts until I was, eventually, forced to give them back with the rest of your ability to think clearly." 

"I don't *want* to think clearly, Daddy!" 

"Shh, not that. Not that. Your Daddy knows what you need... and what you *will* need, some time from now. I'll *always* take care of you." 

Porthos blinks up at him and just -- 

He *tries* not to -- no, he lets *all* of the groan out, even though the pressure on him, in *this* moment, is light enough that he could've held a little of it back. He -- 

"Good son..." 

He knows it's right. 

"That you do. Now, about this fantasy --" 

"Please, I -- I know you'll make it happen if you can at *all* --" 

"As soon as you need it, son. As soon as you *want* it," Daddy says, and squeezes Porthos's bollocks *promisingly* hard -- 

Hard enough to make Porthos break out in new sweat -- 

Daddy's tongue is peeking again -- 

"I -- I -- please, I want -- your fantasies. *Yours*." 

Daddy *whuffs* in something Porthos *knows* is shock -- 

It shouldn't be -- 

It *shouldn't* be -- and Daddy growls and grips Porthos's *cock*, too, just beyond his growing knot -- "It won't be for much longer, son --" 

"Daddy --" 

"We're *going* to know each other, son," Daddy says, and *alternates* hands as he squeezes -- 

"I want -- I want it!" 

"We're going to -- mm. We're going to know... oh... every little thing about each other..." 

"*Please* --" 

"I'll know the *precise* taste of your sweat when you want to be bent over -- as opposed to being on your hands and knees, or on your back..."

Porthos pants and *stares* --

Daddy squeezes Porthos's cock *gently* -- and licks his whole face. "*You'll* know the *pitch* of my growls when I'm thinking of fucking you with my tongue -- and *only* my tongue. When I'm thinking of *forcing* you to spend for something slick and hot and wet and *soft*. When I'm *dreaming* of making you *beg* for something *harder* -- but *not* giving it to you." 

"*Fuck* --" 

Daddy grins *sharply*. "Right away..." 

"Anything, Daddy, I -- *anything* --" 

"Have you *been* tongue-fucked, son?" 

"Not -- not in a while. And not by all that many people. I uh. I love it, though." 

Daddy rumbles and rumbles. "Of course I've dreamed of having you *that* way, son. It's one of my *very* favourite things to do -- especially with people who smell as *remarkably* good as you do to me. As you always *have* to me -- though you smell rather different now than you did as an infant," he says, and smiles wryly.

Porthos can't help feeling *curious* about that -- 

Just -- 

*What* does he smell like to his Daddy? What did that shifter's nose *tell* him? It -- 

Daddy laughs hard, releasing Porthos's bollocks and swiping up some of Porthos's slick on the fingers of that hand. 

He lifts those fingers to his face and -- sniffs, not licks. Sniffs *thoroughly* -- 

Pants out little whuffing *barks* while sniffing -- 

"Daddy..." 

"My son smells perfect. Rich. Raw. *Thick*. *Inescapably* male and *strong*, I --" Daddy growls and parts his lips -- 

But then growls even *harder* and *shoves* his sticky hand down between Porthos's legs -- 

He *paints* Porthos's hole with his own slick, he -- 

"Daddy..." 

"Mm. Think of this as the... condiment on an already wonderful dish, son --" 

"Oh my -- *fuck* --" 

"You *want* my fantasies. You *need* them -- I know you do --" 

Porthos blushes hard -- 

"And I'm going to give you all of them... though this could take a *little* time..." 

Porthos -- raises his eyebrows. 

Daddy barks a laugh and starts *rubbing* Porthos's hole with those slick-sticky fingers, starts -- 

Fuck, and Porthos can feel *all* those calluses -- 

They feel as hard as *rock*, and -- 

Porthos is groaning and trying to spread wider again, trying to *give* again, and Daddy hasn't even increased the pressure. It's just -- 

"You like this touch," Daddy says, and rumbles *exactly* like he already knows the answer -- which he absolutely should. 

But -- he *always* wants Porthos's voice. "I love it, Daddy, I love -- I tease myself *bloody* when I have the patience for it --" 

Daddy laughs evilly -- "Now that we've given you even more calluses than you already had...?" 

"Fuck -- *yeah* -- but also before --" 

Daddy rumbles more and more -- "I wonder..." 

"Mm?" 

And Daddy presses *hard* on Porthos's hole before dragging his calluses over it again -- 

Porthos shivers and whimpers -- 

*Shakes* -- 

Starts *cautiously* rocking into it a little -- just -- 

He doesn't want Daddy to *move* that hand -- 

"More than... a little, son?" And Daddy starts rubbing in hard *circles*, which Porthos only does to himself when he's *about* to push in -- 

"Fuck..." His cock is jerking so *much* -- 

He just -- 

He licks *his* lips, and tastes sweat, and tries to just -- wait. "Fuck, Daddy, wait -- I mean -- *you* don't have to wait!" 

Daddy laughs softly. "This is 'waiting', son...?" 

"I --" 

Daddy rubs *brutally* hard -- 

"Oh *fuck* --" 

"Like I said, son -- you haven't spent *nearly* enough time on your knees to men like *me*." 

"Who *is* like you?" 

Daddy screws his face up mock-judiciously -- 

"Aw --" 

Strokes his bloody *beard* with his -- mostly -- clean hand -- 

"Daddy --" 

"Why, I just don't know, son --" 

"Daddy, you --" 

"*But*..." And Daddy *pins* Porthos with a look while dragging those calluses even more *roughly*. "Something tells me that I might just have one or *two* things in common with my beautiful, magnificent, *patient*, *gentle* *son*." 

Porthos's jaw drops as he -- remembers how this evening started out. 

Daddy nods once and just... keeps teasing and torturing and *rubbing* him. 

Rubbing him *perfectly*. Just -- 

Porthos is sweating and *quivering* a little -- 

Starting to *ache*, and -- 

But --

Porthos licks his lips again -- "You don't -- you don't have to be gentle --" 

"All the time, son...? I know that, too," Daddy says, and tips the *hat* he isn't wearing. 

"You -- absolutely know what I want right *now*." 

"I have a few ideas... but you could always give me *more*," Daddy says and raises his eyebrows. His perfect pale blue eyes are bright and merry and *wild* all at once -- 

Porthos pants -- "I've -- I've *wanted* you, Daddy!" 

Daddy rumbles more. "My perfect son. Mm. Let me make things... just a little easier..." 

"Oh fuck -- *UNGH* --" And Porthos is arching again -- 

Trying to shove himself onto Daddy's fingers -- 

Trying to *take* -- 

He's so *empty* -- 

"But you like to be *teased*, son..." 

"I -- I --" 

"You like to be hurt a little *this* way," Daddy says, and turns a blunt *fingernail* on the strip of skin behind Porthos's bollocks -- 

"*Fuck* --" 

"Oh, son... mm. I tended to try to *avoid* wallowing in my fantasies of you, you know." 

"Wh-what -- *NNH* --" 

"Just take this for a moment, son," Daddy says, and scratches behind Porthos's bollocks again -- 

Again and Porthos *barks* -- 

Again and Porthos *whines*, helpless and high and *loud* -- 

*Again* and Porthos is struggling not to writhe again, struggling to stay right *there* for his Daddy, please right *there* -- 

*Daddy* barks, just a sharp little cough of sound -- and his teeth are showing as he moves his fingers back to Porthos's hole -- 

"Please!" 

"Shh. Just for a moment." 

"Yeah -- I -- I --" Porthos whimpers for the *scrape* of those calluses, for the scents of *both* of them all around -- he shuts his mouth up tight.

"Good son. Here's why I tried to be a little -- a *little* -- well-behaved around you --" 

"*Athos*! Oh -- I -- fuck, 'm *sorry* --" 

"Shh, shh, all is well, son. You just want to be good for your Daddy. Don't you, son. You want to show your Daddy all you've *learned*." 

Porthos blushes like *fire* -- but. "Yes, Daddy, *please*, Daddy --" 

"My perfect son," Daddy says, and rumbles more. "And you're absolutely on the right track. But -- Athos was, shamefully, only the *excuse* I was using." 

Porthos frowns. "Daddy...?" 

"Mm. I *told* myself that it was *incorrect* -- among other things -- to dream so *extensively* -- and it was extensive, and I *will* tell you -- about the man who belonged with my godson, but, what I was *truly* doing..." Daddy growls and shakes his head. "Son, I was *hiding* from the need to *take* you. To make you *mine* -- and the rest of the pack's, as well. 

"I was hiding from the *perfectly* clear *knowledge* in me that you -- everything *about* you -- were what I needed, and I can't even blame the enchantment that was on both of us for it." 

Porthos *blinks* -- "I -- no?" 

"No, son. I absolutely was not ready -- spiritually, emotionally -- to allow myself to come to know *any* young man *as* a son... until I spent enough time around you being *wonderfully* yourself -- as opposed to a man on his best behaviour in front of his Captain -- that it was impossible to do any hiding whatsoever. And --" 

"I -- I -- it was barely an hour and a *half*!" 

"Oh, son. It was barely five *minutes* of you being yourself with me before certain truths *started* becoming apparent. You'll know that better for yourself once I... ease up on you a little more --" 

"Oh -- please don't!" 

Daddy's smile is wet. "As I said, son. I'll do it on *my* time... unless you *need* it to be on yours." 

Porthos swallows and just -- deals with his flush. And the blush that goes with it. 

Daddy's got his eyebrow up *exactly* like he knows Porthos has more to say. He -- 

Porthos nods and takes a breath. "I need. I need you not to let up on me... for a good, long while, Daddy. For -- I don't know. I'm supposed to have leave tomorrow --" 

"That you are," Daddy says, and rumbles. "You were planning a *late* night tonight. Weren't you." 

"Yes, Daddy, but -- I know you have to --" 

The pressure is *immediate* -- and hard. *Intense*. 

Porthos is gasping and staring -- 

*Trying* to stare -- 

He can't bloody *see* -- but he can feel. He can feel *Daddy*. His hands on Porthos's *thighs* again, his *power* all *through* Porthos -- filling him up and *riding* him -- 

(Son...) 

And Porthos doesn't know if he makes a sound for that or *not* -- it felt like Daddy's voice had *come* from every part of his soul -- 

(I'll teach you that, too, son. But... mm. *Son*.)

*Please*! 

(There's only one thing I *have* to do right now, son -- and that's take *our* pleasure of you until you're pliant and *senseless*. I need that far, far more than *anything* else, and I will not leave here *without* it...) 

Fuck... 

Daddy laughs then, low and evil and *hungry*, so *hungry* -- 

Daddy *fills* Porthos with his laughter, and it's just another way to be ridden, just another way to be *fucked*, and Porthos * knows* he's writhing, knows he's all but *presenting* -- 

"Oh, son..." 

And *hearing* Daddy's voice *aloud* lets Porthos know that the *yoke* is being eased again, that he's being allowed *up* a little, that -- but. 

There's a finger inside him now. 

A *slick* finger, and -- 

Somehow he'd *missed* it going *in*, and it's *Daddy's* finger, and he can't -- 

"Oh, son, you're heard. No distracting you from *this* from now on," Daddy says, and *twists* his finger -- 

Porthos *grunts* -- 

Daddy pulls his finger most of the way out and rocks it in-in-*in* -- 

"Please --" 

"Do you want to beg to be fucked?" 

Porthos blushes *helplessly* -- "I..." 

Daddy *crooks* his finger -- 

"Nnh --" 

"Do you want to beg your Daddy to *fuck* you?" 

Porthos *flushes* as his belly drops -- 

As he *clenches* -- 

As he tries to *make* that one finger a lot *bigger* -- 

"You know what you're to do, son," Daddy says, and starts rocking his finger again -- 

His long finger -- 

So hard and -- 

Porthos moans and shivers -- "'s -- it's *different* when you say it that way, Daddy." 

"Yes. It is," Daddy says, and looks *into* him. 

Porthos -- moans again. "You're -- going to know me." 

"Everything. Every little -- and large -- thing," Daddy says, and uses his *force* again -- 

Porthos flexes open with a *cry* -- 

Tries to *ride* Daddy's finger -- 

Flushes and *salivates* as Daddy holds him still with *one* hand on Porthos's *hip* -- 

"My son. Do you want to beg your Daddy to fuck your sweet *arse*." 

"Please! *Please*. I do! I will!" 

"Does it make you feel *right*." 

"You do! You do -- please, Daddy, please, Daddy, fuck me hard, fuck me dirty, fuck me *raw* --" 

Daddy snarls and *stops* rocking that finger -- 

"*Please*! Please, Daddy, I *need* --" 

"You'll get it, son," Daddy says, and pants -- 

Pulls *out* -- 

*Presses* on Porthos's hole with his fingers and winces like he's *hurting* himself -- 

"Daddy --" 

And then Porthos is gasping again -- 

*Choking* on his own moans, because Daddy is letting Porthos feel what *he* feels -- 

Letting Porthos feel his *hunger* -- 

Feel how hard he is, how much *his* knot *aches* -- 

"Fuck, Daddy, *please*!" 

"This, son," Daddy says, and pushes in with *two* fingers -- 

"Yes -- *yes* --" 

Pushes in slow, hard, *perfect* -- 

Daddy is *growling* -- 

His fingers are so thick, so *big* -- 

So -- 

Porthos is *shaking* -- 

(So am I... inside...) 

Porthos gasps again -- 

"I'm thinking about -- mm. The *second* fantasy I ever had about you, son. I'm revising it, of course -- you weren't *comfortable* enough with me in that fantasy, and I had to spend a great deal of time *making* you comfortable," Daddy says, and there's a *thoughtful* look on his face as he *screws* his fingers in -- 

In -- 

*In* -- 

Porthos whimpers and *shakes* and just -- "Did you -- did you *like* -- making -- fuck, that's so --" 

"I *always* love making my boys feel good, son. Feel... mm. And you *were* my boy in that fantasy -- though not to any *extreme* extent." 

"I -- I -- I can --" 

"Shh. You will *not* be my boy, unless and until you -- somehow, someday -- come to desire it," Daddy says -- with every last *bit* of the Captain's steel. 

Porthos *sweats* -- "Yes, Daddy --" 

"But let me tell you... mm," Daddy says, and uses *force* -- 

"Please tell me! Please fuck me!" 

Daddy rumbles. "In that *particular* fantasy, I've brought you back to my lands outside of Paris," Daddy says, and starts fucking Porthos hard and steady and *slowly* -- 

Just -- 

Just *slowly*, and Porthos needs it, needs it so much, needs it -- 

"*Please*!" 

"*Take* it, son --" 

Porthos sniffles and whimpers and opens his mouth to beg again -- he howls. 

He *howls* -- just -- 

He can't *stop* -- 

"Oh, son... it's gone on just a little too long, hasn't it. The *teasing*." 

Porthos tries to stop *howling* and *speak* -- 

He -- 

He *sobs* and howls *again* -- 

He shakes his *head*, but he has no bloody idea what he's *denying* -- 

"But I do, son," Daddy says, moving enough that he can *loom* over Porthos while fucking him with his fingers -- 

He *chokes* Porthos with his free hand -- 

Chokes him hard and -- 

Porthos can't pull his *tongue* back into his mouth, much less *breathe*, and his cock is jerking in *alarmed* arousal, and he's clenching around Daddy's fingers over and over and *over* again -- 

"But you can focus enough to speak to me. Can't you." 

I -- I -- the howls were wrong? 

"Never. Never with *me*, son. But... I need a bit more of your communication *first*." 

Yes, Daddy!

Daddy inclines his head -- and *spreads* his fingers inside Porthos before thrusting more -- 

More -- 

*More*, and it's hot, so -- so *burning*, and -- 

*Fuck* -- 

"How much of that can you take?" 

As much as you *want*!

Daddy laughs hard. "How much can you take of that if I *also* fuck you with my *cock*, mm?"

... oh. Uhh... 

"Noted. One more question, son..." 

Just. Just one? 

"Just one. And then I'm going to open you *efficiently*, and *then*? I'm going to fuck you *very* hard. And *then* we're going to do some more talking." 

Porthos shivers and clenches -- 

*Clenches* -- 

And croons. He wants -- I want. All of that.

Daddy inclines his head -- and *stills* his fingers again as he releases Porthos's throat -- 

Porthos *whines* -- 

"Shh. Am I knotting you today --"

"Bloody *yes*! *Please*!" 

"Would you like to *see* my knot *first* --"

"I want it, full *stop*, Daddy! It must be *massive* -- and I already know you won't hurt me with it." 

"Wrong, son," Daddy says, and shows his teeth. "I *will* hurt you. I'll hurt your perfect little hole a *great* deal -- and I'll leave you raw inside time and time *again*. But... I will not ever *injure* you deliberately." And Daddy leaves his force *light* for that -- 

Lets Porthos *think* about it -- 

*Feel* about it -- 

About the fingers currently getting him ready for -- and he can't. "Please, Daddy, I -- I usually." But thinking about saying the words was a lot easier than actually getting them out of his *mouth* -- 

Daddy crooks both *fingers* -- 

Porthos's mouth falls *open* -- 

"I'll fuck your throat, too," Daddy says. "I know you've had the *practice*, son..." 

"Fuck -- I *have*! I'll do it *right*!" 

Daddy rumbles. "I have no doubts about that. My son excels at everything he tries..." 

"Fuck fuck -- please, Daddy --" 

"Say what you need to say, son. *Tell* me what you need to tell me... and we *both* get more." 

Porthos blushes again -- 

He's making his Daddy wait again -- 

"You're letting your Daddy *wallow* in you, son. But it's true that I'd rather wallow in other ways *right* now," Daddy says, and smiles *gently*. 

*While* rocking his fingers so *slowly* -- 

So -- 

Porthos knows what that would *feel* like if it was just *faster*, and he has to -- he has to. 

"That's right, son. Give this to me," Daddy, and gives Porthos a *taste* of force. Just enough to make him groan and need and feel -- 

Loose. Ready. "Daddy... I don't *let* the people submitting to me get this crazy. Not -- not *before* I make them spend once or twice --" 

"My son..." And Daddy grins and crooks *hard* -- 

"*Fuck* --" 

"I *have* made you spend... if you'll recall," Daddy says, and starts *fucking* Porthos hard with his fingers, *fast* and hard -- 

"Nnh -- *NNH* -- yes -- yeah -- 'm sorry --" 

"Oh, no, son, you're right that it was time for another..." 

"Yeah -- oh, *yeah* --" And then Porthos is *barking*, because Daddy is *screwing* in fast with those two fingers -- 

Working him -- 

Working him open so -- 

"*Efficiently*, son. Just as I said," Daddy says, and his eyes are gleaming that *hot* blue -- 

And his tongue is lolling just a little -- 

And he's squeezing his *own* tackle *hard* with his free hand -- 

His breeches are so *wet*, so *translucent* -- 

Porthos wants a chance to suck those almost as much as he wants a chance at that *cock* -- 

Daddy *growls* his way through a rumble. "You'll have your chances for *everything*, son. Over and *over* and -- oh, *son*. Be ready," Daddy says, and starts teasing at Porthos's hole with the big knuckle of his third finger. 

Porthos nods a little bloody *frantically* -- 

"You're going to spend before I give you this, son..." 

"*Fuck* --" 

"You're going to -- mm. You're going to give me your *fresh* scents. So hot, so deep --" Daddy rumbles. "Grip your cock for me. Go on," Daddy says, and takes Porthos's *bollocks* in his free hand -- 

Holds them in his palm and *bounces* them a little -- 

"Even this part of you is magnificent, son. Just a *little* hairy, perfectly-sized for a man with a *big* mouth..." And Daddy smiles wider. "We'll see about that later," he says, and *grips* Porthos's bollocks -- 

Porthos opens his mouth -- and *sobs* again -- 

"*Stroke* that big, lovely cock of yours, son..." 

"Yes -- *yes* --" And Porthos *obeys* -- 

Daddy bends the fingers he has *inside* Porthos *up* -- 

Porthos *shouts* -- 

Daddy starts fucking him *that* way -- 

"Daddy -- Daddy, *please*!" 

"You're going to spend for me, son," Daddy says again, and this time his voice is rough and a little breathless. "You're going to do it quickly and *violently*." 

"Yes -- *yes* --" 

"*Squeeze* that cock -- exactly the way you do it when you're thinking about my hands on you, son..." 

"*Fuck* --" Porthos obeys -- 

And Daddy hums and squeezes Porthos's *bollocks* that hard -- 

Flares his nostrils and starts *screwing* in with his fingers bent -- 

Porthos clenches and *croons* -- 

"*Open*." 

Porthos barks in shock and *stares* -- 

"Do it, son. Open up that sweet, jiggly arse and let. Me. *In*," Daddy says, and fucks him harder -- 

*Harder* -- 

"I don't *want* to hurt you this much, son. Not... yet," Daddy says, and shows his *teeth* -- 

*Fuck* -- Porthos can't -- 

He flexes *open* -- 

"There you are," Daddy says, easing up a little and just -- staring into him. 

Drinking him in and *obviously* making plans -- 

"That's *right*. Stroke faster. *Strip* that cock --" 

"*Unh* --" 

"And son...? *Stop* avoiding your *knot*." 

"Oh -- *shit* -- I hadn't -- I --" 

"You hadn't realized you were doing anything of the kind," Daddy says, and *licks* his teeth. "I know, son. I know... oh... a little of everything about how *this* works --" 

"*Please*!" 

"Squeeze your *knot*." 

"Yes, Daddy --" But then Porthos is arching, howling again -- 

He can *feel* himself *crying* a little as his cock jerks and jerks and *jerks* in his hand, but he can't -- 

He can't *stop* squeezing -- 

"Yes, you *can*. *Stroke* more." 

"*Please* --" 

"Don't make your Daddy *wait*, son --" 

Porthos sobs and obeys, just obeys, and his arse is quivering, and his *belly* is quivering, and Daddy's still got him by the *bollocks* -- 

Porthos *needs* -- 

His knot is almost *singing* to him -- 

His cock is still trying to *jerk* -- 

He's spitting slick *everywhere* -- 

He's -- and Porthos realizes, with a shudder, that a part of him is doing nothing but begging, begging constantly, begging *steadily* -- 

Silent in the air and *needy* in the space his soul shares with his Daddy's -- 

"It's beautiful, son. You're *going* to get *every* reward..." 

"I --" 

"Squeeze that *knot*." 

Porthos nods *frantically*, *jerks* his hand down and *works* his knot, works it hard, works it fast -- 

He's crying more, sobbing out croons -- 

Clenching and needing -- 

So *much* -- 

He's never needed so *much* -- 

"And you're going to get all of it and more," Daddy says, flaring his nostrils and rumbling -- 

Flaring his nostrils and *growling* -- 

Flaring his nostrils and crooking his fingers *hard* -- 

Porthos chokes on a sob and *yelps* -- 

"Oh, son... *again*," Daddy says, and *crooks* again -- 

"*Yes*!" 

Crooks again *viciously* -- 

Porthos *howls* again -- 

His hand is *shaking* on his cock -- 

On his -- his *knot*, and he can feel it, feel how much bigger and *harder* it is than it was even twenty minutes ago -- 

"It's swollen, son. *Hot*." 

"Yes -- yeah --" 

"Squeeze it *harder*," Daddy says, and starts fucking him *brutally* with his two fingers -- 

Porthos gasps and -- 

And can't breathe after that, can't -- 

He can't even *exhale* -- 

"Squeeze that *knot*, son!" 

Porthos *obeys* -- 

Squeezes and *holds* it, holds himself *tight*, and he's banging his head back against the pillow, he's sobbing and crooning more, gasping and whimpering and trying to get a *decent* breath, a *real* breath -- 

"I think... not," Daddy says, and *licks* the head of Porthos's cock, long and slick and so -- 

So -- 

Porthos sobs and clenches and sobs *again* -- 

Tries not to *thrust* -- 

"*Thrust* -- but don't even think about letting up on that knot --" 

"Daddy --" 

"*Do* it," Daddy says, and -- 

And *swallows* him, just like that -- 

And works Porthos's *bollocks* -- 

And keeps *fucking* him, fucking him so -- 

But Porthos is fucking *him*, fucking the *Captain*, fucking his *Daddy*, fucking -- 

Oh, his *mouth* -- 

His lips are so *soft* -- 

His mouth is so *hot*, so wet, so *obviously* hungry for him, and Daddy isn't even *quiet* about it. He's -- 

He's *groaning*, crooning as much as Porthos is, suckling and slurping and *humming* like -- 

Like it's just what he wants. 

*Not* like it's *everything* he wants. Like it's the *start* of what he wants, and the images come fast after that, come *hard*, because Porthos can't help dreaming on what Daddy *might* want, *hoping* for what Daddy might want -- 

(I want *everything*,) Daddy says, filling him up again, riding all *through* him again -- 

Sucking *hard*, and Porthos's hand *spasms* on his knot for it -- 

Porthos whimpers and *shoves* in -- 

He's practically punching his Daddy in the *face* -- 

(You're also riding my hand...) 

"I want to! I want --" And then Porthos is whining again, *crying* for it again, because Daddy is spreading his fingers and *twisting*, Daddy is -- 

Is -- 

But it's actually *not* as hard a thrust as before, it isn't, and Porthos *knows* that, but it feels that way, tastes that way, *works* him that way, and Porthos can only toss his head and sob for it, work his knot and *take* it, just *take* it -- 

(Oh, son... here,) Daddy says, and fucks *himself* on Porthos's cock, down and up and down again -- 

Again and again and *again*, and it's so fast, it's so hard, it's so bloody *hot*, and Porthos feels like he's been on the edge for about a *year* -- 

(I see...) And Daddy *stops* thrusting -- 

"Nuh -- *please*!" 

But then Daddy *presses* his two fingers up against Porthos's pleasure-button and rubs and rubs and -- fuck, works him there, right *there*, over and over and *over* again -- 

Porthos feels himself shaking the *bed* -- 

(My perfect son isn't *accustomed* to these feelings. Not all of them, anyway...) 

"I -- I --" 

(I'll train you for this, too, son. I'll teach you *everything* I know -- and we'll learn the rest together. I'll never let you fall.) 

Porthos opens his mouth -- but he's sobbing again, sobbing *more*, biting his lip and nodding, begging *inside* and hoping it's coherent *enough* -- 

(Every plea is beautiful,) Daddy says, releasing Porthos's bollocks and gently urging Porthos to release his own knot. 

Porthos nods and does it, gives up, gives over, tries to *open* more -- 

(Oh, my beautiful son...) And Daddy cups and squeezes Porthos's knot himself, squeezes it *gently*, *warms* it -- 

Porthos shudders and *flexes* -- 

Daddy hums -- (Yes, I see... my good son. Perhaps I'll have a suckle on this, too,) he says, and starts massaging it so gently, so -- 

So -- 

(Nice and sweet. Nice and easy...) 

"D-Daddy --" 

(You'll take it for me, won't you...?) 

"*Anything*!" 

(You'll let me pet you and squeeze you and *cherish* you --" 

"*Hngh* --" 

(-- all night *long*... and *every* night after that...) 

And Porthos is shuddering constantly now, *spasming* again and again and *again* -- 

He can't stop -- 

He's *slick* with sweat -- 

He wants his Daddy to taste him all *over* -- 

(Try *not* to tempt me to do it at noon on the parade grounds...)

Porthos chokes on a laugh -- and clenches for it -- 

Daddy hums again. (That's it, son. That's *just* right...) 

"Daddy -- *Daddy* --" 

(I should say... *most* other times on the parade grounds would be entirely acceptable --) 

"*Fuck* --" 

(You men tend to avoid that area when you're *not* being primped and posed for one godawful inspection or another --) 

"I --" 

(Though... the noises *may* attract the curious, it's true. Perhaps we'll find a way to gag *you*, too.) 

"Oh -- oh -- oh, *will* you?" 

(We have to be prudent, son,) Daddy says, and *presses* the flat of his tongue to the underside of Porthos's cock -- 

*Works* it -- 

Lengthens and *curls* it -- 

"*Fuck* --" 

(That's exactly what you won't be able to do, son. Practice yelling with a cock in your mouth, instead.) 

Porthos splutters -- and *bucks* for the way laughing that hard makes everything *move* inside him, makes everything -- 

It's been so long since he's *had* this -- 

It's -- and he'd told his Daddy just that. 

(In just a few ways, son,) Daddy says, and looks up to meet Porthos's eyes -- and winks. 

Porthos shivers and grins and -- rolls his hips a little, *gives* it to his Daddy -- 

(To both of us...) And Daddy strokes Porthos's knot with *all* of his calluses -- 

Massages and squeezes so *carefully* -- 

Porthos takes a shuddering breath -- 

His rhythm is *already* stuttering -- just. For the *care* -- 

(Oh, son... this is a fantasy.) 

"For -- for *you*?" 

This tine, when Daddy looks up at him, his eyes are dark and *hot*. (I have you in my rooms in Paris -- *usually* my rooms in Paris for the fantasies like this, and no, I'm not sure why. Perhaps we'll figure it out together,) he says, and fucks himself on Porthos's cock fast and *hard* for a long moment -- 

"Please --" 

Another -- 

"Oh fuck *please* --" 

And then he slows *down* again. He -- 

Porthos *grunts* -- 

And Daddy *looks* at him again, eyes burning even as he *ignores* all the drool in his beard -- (You can lick it up later, son --) 

Porthos *bucks* again -- 

(*Good* son,) Daddy says, and sucks harder than anyone *should* be able to with that much in their mouths -- 

Just -- 

(Practice makes perfect, son. It is my *great* hope that you'll learn this for yourself... in time...)

"*Fuck* -- you --" And Porthos is laughing helplessly again -- 

Groaning and shaking and sweating and *jerking* -- 

So close and just -- 

*Living* on his own edge, *needing* this, every *moment* -- 

Daddy -- nods. (I have you in my rooms. We've had a good dinner, a good, long conversation. You've told me -- so much more than you *ever* have about how you came up in the Court. I can't fill in the details, of course, but... the feel of it...) 

Porthos frowns -- "But... even -- before?" 

(I wanted you, son. And I dreamed. But we're in my rooms, and we're speaking. We're in my *sitting* room -- and there are *fewer* weapons in that sitting room than there are in the one in the manor, but my father set a theme. You ask me about them, and about other little things. I tell you everything, and I make you *comfortable* with me --) 

"Oh..." 

(You let me touch you. You let me hold you, and *smell* you as you grow more and more comfortable and amused and *aroused* for all my old tales --) 

"I -- I *would* -- *please* --" 

(I *distract* you from the terrible places your own memories had taken you. I'm ruthless about it. *Systematic*,) Daddy says, and *presses* his fingers against Porthos's pleasure-button -- 

*Swallows* Porthos's cock -- 

Right down to his *knot* -- 

And keeps swallowing, keeps pressing, keeps *swallowing*, over and over and *over* again, and it's hard and soft at once, it's *brutal* and soft at once, and Porthos is gasping and crooning and *clutching* at Daddy's shoulders with his thighs -- 

(Oh, son... in those fantasies, in those beautiful *dreams*, I never once touch you *harshly*.) 

"Nuh -- unh -- *ungh* --"

(I never *hurt* you. Not even with my cock -- and yes, I *do* have the control for that, after all these years...) 

"You don't -- you don't --" 

(Have to? Mm. Not all the time, no,) Daddy says, and *kisses* Porthos's knot between swallows -- 

Kisses so -- *softly* -- 

(Even this... I never imagined you as my *true* son. Not that. You never had a *knot* in my dreams for me to suckle and kiss and *urge* to grow...) 

"Please -- please, Daddy, I -- I *need*..." 

(But you would say things just like that, and *urge* me just like *this*... as I petted you, and stroked you, and sucked you, and licked you, and *tasted* every drop of your *sweat* you let me *have* --) 

"You *can* --" 

(Tell me what you need, mm? Tell me what will make it... just right...) 

"M-more. More -- inside --" Porthos says, and blushes, feels ridiculous, greedy -- 

(Perfect. Perfect in every... mm. I know I told you I *wouldn't* give you another finger until after you spent for me --) 

"I'm sorry, 'm sorry, I won't --" 

(Shh, son. We *don't* know *everything* about each other already. Now do we.) 

"I..." Porthos swallows and shakes *more* -- 

(Just this, son,) Daddy says, and tugs his fingers most of the way out even as he *works* the frontal curve of Porthos's knot with his lips -- 

"UNH -- *please* --" 

(Just. This,) Daddy says, and pushes in with *three* fingers, just like that, slow and steady and so -- 

So -- 

(We don't know everything about each other, yet. We don't know our secret thoughts, desires, dreams, fixations... mm. We *will*, son. I promise you that. But we don't *yet*,) Daddy says, and sucks *hard* on Porthos's knot for a moment -- 

"*Daddy*! *Yes*!" 

(I see... here,) Daddy says, and sucks *vicious* kisses everywhere on the knot he can reach -- 

Porthos is grunting helplessly -- 

Shoving -- 

Trying to shove the *knot* into Daddy's mouth -- 

Daddy is humming and drooling and -- 

And Porthos is shoving himself back and back onto Daddy's fingers, and they're so big in him, so thick, so -- 

They're *bigger* than anything he's taken in a long time -- 

His toy just isn't that *thick* -- but Porthos is still taking this, still taking it *easily* -- 

(You're *mine*, son... and that's going to come out in just a *few* ways.) 

*Fuck* -- 

Daddy laughs evilly all *through* Porthos -- and fucks him faster, but *not* harder -- 

"Fuck, Daddy, fuck, I -- I want..." 

(Go on, son. Tell me...) 

Porthos moans and blushes *hard* for the thought of it -- 

For the thought of even *trying* to say it -- 

(Mm, that won't do...) And Treville uses that *pressure* again -- 

Porthos flexes open even as his cock *spits* slick -- 

Right into Daddy's *mouth* -- 

(Right down my *throat*, son. *Excellent* work,) he says, and sucks another kiss -- 

Another -- 

*Another*, and with the pressure it feels like being kissed all over his spirit, all over his *soul* -- 

It feels like being made love to in a way that's impossible to *escape* from, and that's -- 

That's everything he *wants* with Daddy -- 

That's everything he *needs* -- 

(No, it *isn't*,) Daddy says, and uses even *more* force -- 

Porthos's cock spasms again and *again*, and he's shouting, fucking Daddy's *face*, shoving himself *back*, and -- "Please! Please open me *wider*!" 

(Really, now... mm. I was going to do that *anyway*, son -- I *have* to in order to give you my knot --) 

"Oh -- *fuck* --" 

(But we can absolutely do it on an... expedited schedule,) Daddy says, and *grins* around Porthos's cock -- 

And looks up into Porthos's eyes again -- 

(Be ready, son...) 

"Yeah -- fuck --" 

And then Daddy *shoves* Porthos down with his power, and Porthos is yipping and yipping and crooning and clawing at the *sheets* -- 

Flexing open *wide* and licking at the *air* because he can't *reach* Daddy -- 

Please, he needs his *Daddy* -- 

(You have me, son. You always, *always* will,) Daddy says, in a low, calm, and almost *hard* voice -- 

Porthos whines and *shivers* -- 

(That's right, son. Pay *close* attention to what I'm doing to you...) And Daddy pulls *almost* all the way out -- 

Spreads his fingertips -- 

His hands are so *strong* -- 

So -- 

But that pinky is right there, right -- 

He's pushing in, pushing -- 

Oh -- 

Porthos *shouts* a howl, loud and *desperate*, because it hurts, it *does* hurt, but it's also going right in, all the way *in* -- 

(You're *mine*!) 

Daddy controls his *body*! Daddy controls just -- just *everything*, and there are tears on Porthos's cheeks again, and his cock is spasming in Daddy's mouth, and he's *never* been so full, never been so *stuffed* -- 

(You're not stuffed, yet...) And Daddy *slurps* his way off Porthos's cock --

Porthos whimpers and *shakes* -- 

"My perfect son... here," Daddy says, and starts tossing him off *gently* and *softly* even as he's *ramming* his four fingers into Porthos's arse -- 

Opening him so -- 

So -- 

And the touches to his cock are almost hallucinatory compared to everything else -- they seem to glance and *spark* off Porthos's need, as opposed to the fuck, which shoves him right down and forces Porthos to *wallow* in it -- 

"You belong on the *ground*, son..." 

He does, he *does* -- 

"You belong in the *filth*. *With* your Daddy -- now and forever..." 

Anything -- 

"*Everything*, son. Including... this," Daddy says, and crooks all *four* of his fingers for a *blinding* moment that Porthos actually thinks he might live through -- 

Until Daddy strokes back down to Porthos's knot and squeezes so *perfectly* gently that Porthos is sobbing and screaming and crying and *spending* through a howl, through *every* howl -- 

"That's *right*, son --" 

He can't -- 

"You *can*," Daddy says, and crooks his fingers again -- 

*Again* -- 

Porthos *growls* through a howl, sniffles and sobs more, *more*, and he's still shooting off, still -- 

There's so *much* again, so -- 

His cock just keeps *spasming* -- 

"It knows who it *belongs* to," Daddy says, and pumps Porthos's knot again -- 

Porthos *screams* again -- 

Spends *more* -- 

It's *excruciating* in a way that's making him spend *more* -- 

"Oh, look at you..." 

"What -- what -- I feel --" 

"You feel your beautiful knot *swelling*, son. Getting -- mm. Nice and big. Nice and *fat*," Daddy says, and squeezes again -- 

"*Please*!" 

"Get *loose*, son. Because as *soon* as you stop spending? I'm *going* to fuck you." 

Porthos grunts again -- 

Again and -- 

He's spurting every *time*, and Daddy is working it *out* of him, *forcing* it out of him with *both* hands, and the only thing Porthos can say is that there *seems* to be a little less coming *out* now -- 

Daddy laughs *evilly* again -- and licks his whole face. "Been a while, has it...?" 

"It hasn't been a bloody *decade*!" 

Daddy *yips* laughter, swiping up spend from Porthos's chest and belly and sucking it off his fingers. "Mm. Mmm... you..." Daddy licks his face again -- 

*Squeezes* Porthos again -- 

Porthos *braces* -- but he doesn't spurt this time. Just -- 

Just *spasms* -- 

A *few* times -- 

He can breathe, though. He focuses on that. 

"Good son. You do that," Daddy says, and swipes up more spend -- "Mm, I -- you're a shifter now, son. You're an *earth*-mage shifter, and that means that you couldn't be more the All-Mother's child without Her actually having given *birth* to you." 

"I -- I know that --" 

"I don't think you do, son. Not *everything* it means," Daddy says, and raises the *teaching* eyebrow, despite having the wettest breeches Porthos has ever seen outside of people actively *swimming*. 

"Uhh..." 

Daddy snorts. "Son." 

"Right, well, I know you're going to *heal* my crippling ignorance, Daddy --" 

"Despite your failures with regards to Athos's crippling virginity, yes --" 

Porthos *coughs* -- 

Daddy winks again -- and very obviously *savours* the spend he swipes up *this* time. 

Like the *wine*. 

(This is far, far better than the *wine*, son...) 

"It bloody better be!" 

Daddy *splutters* -- 

Which. "Right, that was. I've never actually had my own spend *laughed* all over my face before --" 

"You earned it, son," Daddy says, leaning in and bracing himself on the pillow before -- licking Porthos clean. 

Just -- 

"I'm enjoying -- mm. I'm enjoying this immensely -- rrr. As an aside." 

"How long *can* you be this hard before you lose your *mind*?" 

"Hours and hours and --" 

"*Fuck* --" 

"I'll teach you --" 

"I don't *want* you to!" 

Daddy snorts *hard* -- and nips Porthos's cheek -- 

Porthos yelps a bit -- "I'll behave!" 

"Mm," Daddy says, and licks to soothe. "Not *too* much, please." 

"Just enough to let you finish a thought...?" 

Daddy pulls back, kneels up again, and nods mock-judiciously, stroking his beard -- and mussing it even *worse*. 

And he's just... gorgeous like that. Happy and debauched and comfortable and *obviously* doing exactly what he wants to do. 

Daddy blinks at him.

"What? I've wanted to see you like this... for a really long time." 

Daddy parts his lips -- and then grins, eyes narrow and *hotly* pleased. "My son. You're going to have an *extremely* difficult time getting rid of me..." 

"I'd probably have more luck with it if I actually *tried*." 

Another one of those fake judicious faces -- and another grin. "I could happily spend all night speaking with you, son... to answer the question you haven't quite asked." 

"Yeah, but." Porthos frowns. And then frowns at Daddy's tackle, the shapes of which are entirely visible through those sodding *translucent breeches* -- 

Daddy snickers and *pats* his cock through the breeches. "You're going to *need* to learn control, son." 

"I --" 

"*Far* more control than you already have -- and I know your control is just as impressive as it should be for a large, powerful man who enjoys making love to much, *much* smaller people." 

"Uh. You're saying your control was serious before you were changed, too." 

"Oh, yes." 

"And you still had to..." 

Daddy nods -- and smiles wryly. "We're the *All-Mother's* children, son, and *one* of the things that means is that *She* needs us to be ready -- *powerfully* ready -- to produce *more* children for Her at a moment's notice." And that teaching eyebrow goes up. 

"Oh. Well -- that explains all the *spend*, but not the --" 

"Think about it, son," Daddy says, and draws *patterns* in the spend on Porthos's chest with the hand he doesn't still have *up Porthos's arse* -- 

"You're -- having a lot of fun with that, aren't you." 

"Painting my massive, beautiful, dark, *magnificent* son with his own spend...? That *I* coaxed out of him...? I'm ecstatic, son. But you were going to do some thinking for me." 

"Right, thinking -- uhh..." 

Daddy keeps... painting him. 

His cock looks like it's going to stage an all-out *mutiny* behind those breeches -- but his eyes are calm. Steady. *Focused* -- and patient. 

And that's always made Porthos want to give his best, *be* his best -- 

"Yourself, son. *Just* yourself." 

Porthos blushes. "Yes, Daddy. I uh -- I mean, I think you're saying that it's not *just* the insane amount of spend, or the howling and such, or the *knot*. It's -- I'll *lose* all that control I worked for coming up?" 

Daddy inclines his head, and smiles ruefully. "It won't be... dire. Not with the people who know your heart, and who can thus yank your lead when it *needs* to be yanked --" 

"I -- there aren't --" 

"There are, son. And you're *going* to have even more of those people -- *surrounding* you -- so, really, it's *mostly* going to be a problem when you're making love with the people who *don't* know you, or who don't know you well enough, *yet*." 

"I -- no more time at Elias's, eh?" 

"Not... for a little while." 

"Daddy --" 

"A *little* while, son. I'm not putting chains on you, and the All-Mother never *would* put chains on you. That's not how She *works*." 

"But --" 

"*But*... you're a brilliant, powerful, *careful* young man who has spent his *entire* life, just about, being bigger and stronger than his peers. You already know how to make these adjustments, son -- better than *I* did when it was my turn, truly." 

"Oh... oh. All that time being tossed around by Mum..." 

"And by Kitos, and by *Laurent*... well. Being an average-sized man had its luxuries, as much as I didn't want to *hear* about them most of the time." 

Porthos nods thoughtfully. "So -- I'm basically going to apply all those *old* lessons -- and some new ones, too?" 

"That's right. You've never *once* thought about how to yank your own lead when the All-Mother *enters* you and *fills* you with her *love* and *devotion* and *need* for you to be ripe and ready to *go*, as an example." 

"Uh. Shit?" 

Daddy snickers -- and paints Porthos's *mouth*.

Porthos licks his lips helplessly -- 

"I'll teach you, son. And we'll *all* teach you when it's a good idea not to yank your lead, at *all* -- no matter how bestial you feel. No matter how dirty and animal and *incorrect* you feel around... well." And Daddy raises an eyebrow. 

Porthos winces. "I uh. I'm having some *godawful* thoughts about what it's going to be like to get hard around Athos now..." 

"I know you are, son -- and believe me, I had the same thoughts about Laurent, once upon a time. Athos has *modeled* himself on his father in *many* ways, and that ramrod-straight spine can make a man -- a *dog* -- feel *less*." 

"*Yes* --" 

"Whether or not they should, son. If nothing else... well, you and Athos have been friends for *over* a year now -- and he's told me *precisely* how much you *speak*." 

"I --" 

"*You've* told me -- in countless ways -- just how deeply you can *read* a man after the briefest *possible* conversation," Daddy says, and raises that eyebrow again. "How *exactly* would Athos feel if he *knew* that you were raking yourself over the coals over the prospect of him judging you *unfit*?" 

Porthos -- winces. And nods. 

Daddy raises that eyebrow higher. 

"No, I -- I'm not going to *fight* you on this, Daddy," Porthos says, and laughs hard. "That was *remarkably* efficient." 

Daddy rumbles. "Musketeers don't piss about, son." 

"Oh, sodding *really*. What does your *cock* have to say about that?" 

"Absolutely nothing, son -- I gag its little mouth before I leave the house every morning." 

Porthos snorts *hard* -- "That bloody *hurt*, you arse --" 

Daddy pats his belly. "Belt up, son. We'll have to fit your cock for its bit and harness --" 

"*Shit* --" 

"I'm not actually going to torture you *that* way, son," Daddy says, and snickers more. 

Porthos scowls -- and then scowls at Daddy's crotch, trying to see signs of -- something. 

Daddy's cock jerks *hard* under those breeches -- 

"Right, that's a relief." 

"It's always going to respond well to a firm hand, son," Daddy says, and *finally* starts unlacing the breeches -- one-handed. 

Because -- 

And *then* Daddy starts pulling out -- 

"Aw, *fuck* -- no -- wait --" 

Daddy stops *immediately* -- which -- 

"Right, no, *keep pulling out*, but --" Porthos blows out a breath and smiles ruefully. "I just -- you're about to *drop* me again, right?" 

Daddy licks his teeth. "The idea had occurred..." 

"Yeah, *please*. I bloody *love* it. But *first*...?" 

Daddy grins at him with that *fierce* pride again, that warm, wild, *loving* pride -- "I'm *absolutely* listening, son." 

Porthos pants. "I need to feel every *second* of you fucking me, Daddy. Of your cock going in. Of your cock ramming my pleasure-button. Of your knot *opening* me even wider than you already *did* --" 

Daddy *snaps* at *nothing* -- 

"Uh." 

"Keep. Talking." 

"Yes, Daddy. Just -- let me feel. *Give* that to me. Because I've been trying and failing to imagine it for a very long time, and -- I need it. I need it for when you're *not* where I can touch you. Where I can *smell* you."


	8. Privacy is not his middle name, but that other, other, *other* last name *might* be Control.

Daddy growls low and hard and *violent* -- 

Porthos nods and tries and fails to catch his *breath* -- 

And the growl cuts off sharp, just like that. "Breathe for me, son. Nice and slow -- even if you can't manage even right now." 

"Yes, Daddy," Porthos says, and bloody *applies* himself to the *problem* of breathing. Maybe not quite the way he had when it was Athos teaching him how all those months ago, and he was still trying not to bloody wash *out*, but -- 

No, no, he's going to be serious about this, because he can *see* Daddy getting hotter for it, hotter for the run of Porthos's *thoughts*, for how good a *soldier* Porthos has made himself into -- and that makes nothing but sense. 

So Porthos breathes -- 

And breathes -- 

And slows it *right* down for his Daddy, loosens himself *up* until he's *aware* of all the ways he's just a little too swollen from the way Daddy was fingering him to *completely* loosen up -- 

Until he's aware, again, of every last one of those *calluses* -- 

Until he wants to be fucked by those fingers *again* -- 

"Oh, son. We *absolutely* can --" 

"Please, no! I want --" 

"Shh. I was talking about... after," Daddy says, and lolls his *tongue*. 

Porthos *stares* -- 

Just -- 

No, wait -- "Uh. Aren't we going to be *tied* for -- a while?" 

"I believe I already mentioned that I didn't plan to leave here until I'd left you utterly mindless, son --" 

"*Fuck* --" 

"Now *breathe*." 

"*Yes*, Daddy!" And Porthos goes back to it. He -- 

*Daddy* is breathing steadily -- 

*Frighteningly* steadily, considering the state of his tackle and the *wildness* behind his eyes -- 

Daddy is... guiding him. *Teaching* him again, and fuck, but Porthos wants this every night *and* every day -- 

Wants every dirty little lesson *and* all the clean ones, too -- 

Wants his Daddy, and -- somehow; he's not even remotely sure how this would work -- wants his Daddy for everyone else who's ever needed someone *like* him. Someone strong, someone sure, someone *controlled* -- but still easy and open and caring and warm and *gentle* absolutely *all* the times when you need him to be. 

Someone -- 

Porthos shivers through his long, deep breaths, and tries sending a *heartfelt* thank-you to the All-Mother -- at which point She *floods* him with happiness, love, warmth, welcome, amusement, and somehow *gently* dire threats against his person should he not visit soon. 

Porthos comes back to himself crooning and *writhing* -- and Daddy is giving him a *quirkedly* loving look. 

That... 

"You uh. You *absolutely* could've warned me about that." 

Daddy touches his tongue to his upper lip. "True. But it bodes well for your relationship with the goddess that you're such a *dutiful* seed, son." 

"Seed --" Porthos snorts. "I just wanted --" 

"I know, son. And I've been thanking Her, periodically, all night." 

"Oh." Porthos blushes and -- remembers to not even try to duck his head. 

"That's right. Good son. Now... are you ready for me to pull out?" 

"I uh... She also left me *looser*, Daddy, so *yeah*." 

Daddy snickers. "There are times when She leaves me feeling as though I could take a reaming from, at the very least, two or *three* of the garrison horses --" 

Porthos *snorts* -- 

"No more than four, though. She's a very gentle goddess," Daddy says, and starts to pull out again -- 

Porthos gives up and does his *own* arsehole-snickering -- 

And winds up groaning and *arching* as Daddy removes what feels like at least three or four of his *hands* from Porthos's arse. 

But -- not in a bad way. 

Daddy rumbles. "No, son?" 

"Laughter always makes it better, Daddy, you know that." 

"That I do, but -- mm. You were taking rather more of a *reaming* than I intended," Daddy says, slipping out entirely before wiping his hand on the clean-*enough* rag Porthos had been keeping by the bed, matter-of-fact and efficient. "I believe..." Daddy nods once, then oils his hand again -- 

And this time Porthos can *see* the little pot of oil he'd brought with him tonight -- and smell it, too. That. "Daddy, is that bloody *olive* oil? And -- what do you believe?" 

Daddy winks. "I *believe* you've already come into *enough* of your power that you're *healing* from everything I do to you --" 

"Oh. *Shit* --" 

"As to the other... well. When it comes to the pack? *Only* Kitos is especially fond of the *taste* of olive oil, son. And even he much prefers its other... applications," Daddy says, kneeling up, *shoving* down his opened breeches -- 

"*Fuck* -- is my cock going to look like *that*?" 

"Only when you're hard, son," Daddy says, and starts slicking himself *up*. 

"Uhh..." Porthos frowns. 

Daddy snickers more. "You'll get used to it. Especially once you come to know, for yourself, just how *many* people have a little bit of a fixation for such things," he says, and gives himself a squeeze -- 

He narrows his eyes -- 

He licks his -- sharpening -- teeth -- "Are you ready for me, son...?"

Porthos -- pants. 

Daddy flares his nostrils -- and nods. "Remember, son -- I need this to be *right* for you far, far more than I need it to happen *tonight*," he says, and has the bloody nerve to smell *sincere* and *easy* with himself despite the fact that his cock is reaching -- really sodding well -- for the *sky*. And that... 

That, ultimately, is more of a problem than anything else. 

"What is, son?" And Daddy frowns a little -- 

"I need -- uh. I need you to have a little *less* control --" 

Daddy -- growls. "This doesn't feel real enough to you." 

"I -- wouldn't say -- or." 

"This doesn't feel..." Daddy growls harder and rolls his *head* on his *neck* -- pretty much exactly like a man who'd just taken off a *heavy* collar. 

"Daddy --" 

"I did, son. I *did* take a collar off. And -- most of -- a *lead*," Daddy says, and growls even *more*. His *ears* are lengthening -- 

"Shit -- uh -- I don't *actually* want to be fucked by a *dog* right now --" 

"The dog is your father, too, son. The dog was -- and will, with me, *always* be -- your mother's *mate*." 

"Are you... trying to *convince* me?" 

Daddy -- shows his teeth. And *strokes* himself once -- 

Twice -- 

This time, he *does* squeeze his knot -- and it spits slick all over *both* of them, hot and wet and -- "I'm not trying to convince you." 

"Uh. What? Sorry, I --" 

"I'm not trying to convince you to take the dog tonight, son. The *dog* will make his own arguments about that... after he's spent some time getting to know you," Daddy says, and rolls his head on his neck again. "Tell me you're ready for my cock, son," Daddy says, and -- he's sweating now. 

*Gleaming* with it, and Porthos can smell his scents *high* in the air. They're *different*. They -- 

"Wilder, son. *Hotter* -- for you." 

"*Fuck* --" 

"I. Let myself. Off the lead," Daddy says, and *snaps* at the air. "Now let me have you." 

"Fuck fuck --" Porthos spreads as wide as he *can* -- 

Daddy snaps again -- 

*Again* -- 

Snarls and *shudders* -- and squeezes himself again while *gleaming* into Porthos's eyes. "Good son. I'm. Not completely out of control. I never will be. I can't do that," Daddy says, and lines himself up -- 

And *sighs* out a growl as he paints Porthos's hole with *his* slick -- 

"Please --" 

"My son. *Mine*." 

"Yours!" 

Daddy nods slowly -- and pushes *right* in, sleek and hot and not -- 

Not slow at *all* -- 

He's so *big* -- 

So -- 

He's so *long*, and *thick*, and yeah, Porthos bloody well had most of his hand up there a minute ago, but *fuck* -- 

"I'm not *done* yet, son..." 

"You'd better not be!" 

Daddy yips laughter, bright and wild and *mad* -- and then *chokes* Porthos just before he would've taken another breath. "Do you feel me, son...?" 

Porthos's jaw drops -- 

Daddy swivels his *hips* -- 

Porthos tries and fails to *gasp* -- 

"Do. You. *Feel* me." 

Please --

Daddy *shoves* in -- 

*Fuck* -- 

"Yes or no, son. Because *I* think. I think you need to feel me just a *bit* more. But it's. Always your *choice*," Daddy says, and *bites* Porthos's jaw through the beard -- 

Bites *hard* -- 

Pulls out just enough to make his next shove *count* -- 

Porthos tries and fails to *scream* -- 

"I hear *all* your. Your beautiful *noise*. Answer me!" And when Daddy pulls back, his eyes are wide and nearly *incandescent* with power *barely* banked. 

Porthos groans in his chest and clenches and shudders and *tries* to nod -- 

Tries to give -- 

Tries to say yes with every *part* of himself -- 

"Oh -- *son*," Daddy says, and kisses him *hard* for -- not long enough. 

Not -- 

But then he's licking Porthos, licking him all over his face and throat and everywhere on his upper chest he can *reach* -- 

Still *choking* him -- 

Moving his fingers only enough to *lick* Porthos better -- 

And Porthos wants to beg, needs to beg, wants to *beg* -- 

And then Daddy starts fucking him hard, fucking him steadily, giving it to him one *long* thrust after another and another and *another*, and Porthos *is* begging, crooning -- 

Just -- 

Even though it comes out as nothing but a *whistle* -- 

Daddy is panting out *sharp* little whuffing *grunts* -- and then he narrows his eyes. "Now," he says, releasing Porthos's throat -- 

Porthos whoops in a breath -- 

And Daddy slams in with his cock and his *power*, Daddy opens him up *wide*, Daddy rides him *down*, and it's everything he wants, everything he needs, everything he's *made* for -- 

Please please please *yes* -- 

He needs his *Daddy* -- 

He needs *all* of his Daddy, and -- and he can *feel* his Daddy's knot *slapping* against his hole at the end of every thrust, feel it teasing him, feel it *promising* -- 

"That's -- that's *right*," Daddy says, and *bites* Porthos's throat -- 

Growls so hard and low that it thrums in Porthos's *spine* -- 

Porthos arches for it -- 

Daddy snarls and *slams* in -- 

In-in-*in* -- 

(Legs *up*, son!) 

And Porthos is obeying before his mind translates those words into any language his soul can *comprehend* at the moment -- 

And Daddy is *shoving* Porthos's knees out and *back* -- 

Porthos *screams* a howl -- 

Daddy bites him *harder* -- 

Porthos *bucks* -- and Daddy *pushes*, pushes even though his cock is all the way in, pushes with his *knot* -- 

Porthos gasps and tries to rock onto it, tries to take it, take it *all* -- 

(Good -- good *son*,) Daddy says, and *rocks* his way in, in just -- 

A little deeper every time -- 

Every -- 

Porthos thinks of Daddy's fingers -- 

Daddy's hard *hand* -- 

This is bigger, hotter, *stranger* -- 

This is wilder and *throbbing*, pulsing with Daddy's heartbeat, and maybe even Porthos's own. It's so big -- 

It's so *much*, and Porthos needs it, needs all of it, needs everything Daddy wants to *give* him -- no. 

He needs everything Daddy *can* give him, and he knows himself well enough, even right now when everything is wild and *maddening*, to know that, when it comes right down to it, he's *going* to be begging Daddy for even *more* -- 

(You're assuming that -- I'll leave you. *Conscious*. For that,) Daddy says, and shoves in harder -- 

*Faster* -- 

Porthos whines and *tries* to clench -- it doesn't bloody *work* -- 

It doesn't -- 

(That's because you're *mine*,) Daddy says, and shoves in that much *more*, so much *more*, and Porthos feels himself stretched wide, stretched helpless and *wide* -- 

It's never been *better* -- 

*Nothing* has ever been better, and the part of him that wants to yell at the rest for being bloody *disloyal* is drowned, buried under the rest, fucked *quiet* -- 

So -- 

(*Almost*, son,) Daddy says, *sucking* as he bites, and -- (Arms *up*.) 

And then Daddy is bracing himself on Porthos's wrists, holding Porthos *down* as he shoves in deeper and deeper and -- oh. 

It's easier now, it's -- 

It's easier and faster and -- 

(*Now*,) Daddy says, and *rams* in -- 

Porthos *howls* -- 

Daddy breaks the *skin* with his bite -- 

Porthos *chokes* on his howl and bucks and bucks and *clenches* -- 

Daddy *barks* into the wound and laps and laps -- (*Binding* you. *Forever*.) 

And Porthos doesn't understand, doesn't know how else he *could* be bound -- 

Daddy snarls again -- (Legs around my *waist*, son!) 

Yes, Daddy! And Porthos obeys, just obeys, just gives *in*, and the change in angle makes him arch again -- 

Daddy squeezes Porthos's wrists *hard* -- 

Porthos *clenches* again -- 

And Daddy whuffs and *whuffs* into the wound on Porthos's throat even as he *slams* into Porthos's arse, *bludgeoning* Porthos's pleasure-button with his knot and keeping him open so wide -- 

So *open* for himself -- 

Making *room* for himself -- 

Porthos wants to be this open *forever*! Just -- 

He wants to be this ready for his Daddy, this wild, this *good*, this *right* -- 

Daddy snarls and bites his *shoulder* again -- and now he's *rutting* in -- 

Rutting so fast, so *hard*, and Porthos wants to keep *track* of the thrusts, wants to -- 

To hold on and really *concentrate* on them, just -- he can't. He *can't*, because every part of his body is hot with it, *burning* with it -- 

He's panting and -- and *salivating* -- 

He's *blind* for this, there's nothing but the colours of pleasure and the heat of Daddy's wild fuck, and he's hard, so *hard*, and Daddy's belly-fur *isn't* the softest thing he's ever felt on his cock, but it's the softest thing he can take, softest thing he can have, softest thing he's *earned* -- 

He's earned *this*! 

He's crooning for it, nodding and begging and taking every -- 

Every rutting *slam* -- 

He never wants it to *stop*, and he's clenching up tight for it now, tight as he *can* with something that huge inside him, something -- 

And now he's burning even more -- 

Now Daddy's snarling with every *breath* -- 

Porthos's cock is *spasming* -- and Daddy's cock is jerking *inside* him, Daddy's knot is *pulsing* inside him, so animal, so *magical*, so -- 

So bloody *perfect*, and Porthos feels lost, stunned, *breathless*, and he knows it would only take one touch -- 

One -- 

(Once. The swelling on my knot. Goes down. I'm pulling out. And shoving back in with three fingers. And keeping you *on* me all. Night. *Long*.)

Except that Porthos can *feel* that, imagine that, *know* that, and *he's* barking even as his eyes roll back in his head -- 

He's bucking and *tossing* his head -- 

He's spurting all over Daddy's *belly*-fur, one shot after another and *another*, and he's barking out *cries* now, cries for each *shot* -- 

(My. *Son*,) Daddy says, and bites Porthos's other shoulder, bites and *lifts* Porthos by the grip of his *teeth* -- 

"*Fuck* --" And Porthos spurts again, flexes -- arms and *hole* -- 

(I won't. Ever. Let you. *Go*,) Daddy says, and -- now he's reaming Porthos, now he's -- 

Oh, it's so fast, it's so fast and *hard*, and it's not *exactly* like what Porthos has seen of *non*-shifter dogs, but -- 

But it's animal, it's *perfectly* animal, and Porthos is blushing for it, nodding, spasming *dryly* -- 

*Eventually* -- 

Daddy barks a *laugh* -- 

*Jerks* off-rhythm -- 

Porthos clenches *helplessly* -- 

(*Stay*. Just like that --) 

Porthos *obeys* -- and now it's the kind of fuck that Porthos was always a little *afraid* of how much he enjoyed when he was young -- it's just that *vicious*, just that *violent* and *rough*. 

(Son -- *son* -- I --) 

He's old enough now to have a toy of his own, though. A *mean* toy of his own -- that will now be *just* big enough to make him *hungry* -- 

Just -- 

Just hard enough -- oh, Daddy, oh, Daddy, don't *stop* -- 

Daddy *grunts* as he slams in -- 

Howls into Porthos's shoulder -- 

They hit the bed *hard*, jarringly -- 

And Daddy breaks the bite, throws his head back, and howls again -- 

Again -- 

He's rutting so *raggedly* -- and he doesn't stop for even a *moment* when he starts shooting off. When he -- 

And it's so *hot* inside Porthos, so -- 

It's *never* been that *easy* to feel, and Porthos isn't *entirely* sure how he *feels* about -- but Daddy is still *fucking* him, still -- 

Still *spurting* while fucking him, and his eyes are gleaming again -- 

His teeth are a dog's teeth -- 

His hair is *fur* -- 

And the *pressure* Porthos can feel on his spirit is coming from two different people.

(Don't *reach*. For *us*,) Daddy says, even as the other person -- 

The *dog* -- 

Reaches for *Porthos*. 

It's the hardest bloody thing in the *world* not to reach back, not to give himself, not -- 

Porthos can *feel* the dog, feel how much he belongs to the dog, *too*, how right it would be for the dog to *take* -- 

And then Porthos is gasping and *blinking*, because there's not one *jot* of pressure on him, and there's no one in his mind but himself, and Daddy is *apart* from him even though he's still bloody *spending* in his *arse* -- and the part of Porthos which is really bloody upset about that is only the loudest part because the rest is a bit. Sodding. Stunned. 

About everything that's happened tonight, really. 

Daddy growls and *stills* himself -- everywhere but his cock, which is still spasming. 

Whether or not it's still shooting off is a bit beyond Porthos's ability to *discern* at the moment -- 

"It is, son," Daddy says and squeezes Porthos's wrists again. Firmly this time, not painfully. 

"Uhh. You don't have to try to have a conversation with me, *yet*, Daddy." 

Daddy smiles wryly -- 

"You bloody *don't* --" 

"Son. You're... tense. To say the least. I am categorically incapable of *continuing* to fuck you in that state." 

Porthos blinks -- and winces. "I'm --" 

"You will not apologize." 

"I bloody well --" 

"Son," Daddy says, just that, and the *control* in his voice is *absolute*. 

Porthos -- shivers. And nods. "Yes, sir -- Daddy. I mean -- I *did* mean Daddy, you don't have to --" 

"I know, son. I'm... studying you very closely at the moment," he says, and smiles *ruefully*. "At the moment, that particular control in my voice is putting thoughts of a... cleaner subordination in your mind." 

"Not -- not *cleaner*," Porthos says, and panics a little -- 

More than a little, because what if he chases his Daddy *away*? 

He -- 

"You never could, son," Daddy says, and squeezes Porthos's wrists firmly again. "We may need more time for some things than others --" 

"Please -- please don't take anything -- away," Porthos says, and blushes *hard*. 

Daddy raises an eyebrow -- 

Porthos's heart *pounds* -- 

And Daddy inclines his head. "You're still thinking of me -- for the most part -- as your Daddy. You're only *not* thinking of me as your Daddy when *I* pull my emotions back from *you* --" 

"Oh -- fuck -- *yeah*, Daddy, that's it!" 

Daddy smiles wryly. "We're still going to have... a little bit of awkwardness, son." 

"Uh... well. Too much?" 

Daddy *blinks* -- "Never," he says, hard and firm and -- not at *all* controlled. 

Porthos -- takes a breath. And nods. "I -- needed to know that." 

"I'll tell you --" Daddy growls -- and shudders like he's *ill*, squeezing Porthos's wrists hard enough to hurt -- but only for a moment before panting once and meeting Porthos's eyes steadily again. "There. I'm no longer spending even a little." 

"Uhh..." 

"I'll tell you everything, son," Daddy says. "*Everything*. Starting with the fact that *starting* to spend made me lose *enough* control that the dog -- who is *intensely* eager to meet you *again* -- could rise within me." 

"And -- reach for me." 

"That's right. Especially when all the pressure I was putting on you made it impossible for you *not* to reach -- a little -- for him." 

"I -- got it. So -- we're going to have some awkwardness." 

Daddy smiles gently. "When we make love in *certain* ways, anyway." 

Porthos shivers and tries to *imagine* going without all that wonderful *force* -- 

It had made everything so *simple* -- 

"Perhaps..." And Daddy raises an eyebrow -- "Perhaps my beautiful son would like to... experiment with being *forced* in *other* ways." 

Porthos stares. 

And licks his lips. 

And stares *more* -- "Right, yeah, I can work with that, Daddy." 

Daddy rumbles and smiles hotly. "What else do you need to know? Mm?"

And that brings up -- 

Porthos can't *help* -- 

"Son...?" 

"Are you... do you regret this?"

And *that* makes Daddy move *one* hand away from Porthos's wrists -- so that he can caress Porthos's face. "I could never regret anything that brought us closer together, son --" 

Porthos -- takes a breath. "Right, all right --" 

"-- but I wonder, in this moment, if that's what we *did*." 

"*Daddy*!" 

Daddy flares his nostrils and looks *into* him. Just -- 

"Ask *me* questions!" 

"What are you afraid of, son? With *me*." 

"Oh." 

"Please. I *need* to know," Daddy says, and *grips* Porthos's face, a little. 

Because that's exactly as important -- there's no hiding from this. "Being too much for you. *Asking* too much *from* you. Being -- too needy. Too... I don't know. Athos would say 'grasping' --" 

"What would *you* say." And Daddy is -- glaring. Though not *at* Porthos, per se. 

Porthos nods and *breathes* more -- "I'd say -- I'd say that I've always wanted to be closer to you, and have all of you that I *could* have, and know everything *about* you that I could know... and I've always been bloody terrified that you'd find out about that and think that I was... uh. Getting above myself." 

Daddy *snarls* -- "*Son* --" 

"I know, Daddy. I *know* what you want to say to that --" 

"I don't -- even if I ever *did* think that way, even if your grandfather had ever *allowed* me to think that way --" 

"I'm your son." 

"You're goddamned *right* you are! I -- *please*. It would *kill* me if you held back from me, Porthos! If you held *anything* back!" 

And, for a moment, Porthos is only waiting for -- it. 

The pressure. Daddy's *power*. But -- 

It's not there, at all.

Daddy smiles with -- just so much *pain*. "You know why I can't give you that right now. You *know* why." 

Porthos shivers. He nods. "You can't -- you can't just force me to feel something like *that*. Especially since I'd wind up doubting you even worse every time you took the pressure *off*." 

"That's right, son. And I -- fuck, but I want to spare you *pain*. I want to --" Daddy gives himself a shake. His eyes are still gleaming. "I know *exactly* why these feelings of -- of *inadequacy* are hard for you to escape. Your whole *bloody* life without your mother practically demanded you be *stuck* with them --" 

"*Yes*, Daddy --" 

"I'm here now, son." 

"I --" 

"I'm here now, and I *will* be here, *with* you, for the rest of your life. And I will teach you better." 

Porthos -- tries not to flinch. 

Daddy smiles ruefully, and strokes over the places he'd bitten Porthos. "I know exactly why you had to kick for *that*, son, now that you're thinking clearly..."

Only the last two bites had *healed*, for some reason, but -- no. "I -- everyone dies, Daddy. Sometimes people die -- really young." 

"Very, very true -- as far as it goes, son." 

"What --" 

"Were you ever taught about immortality?" 

Porthos *blinks* -- "I -- Daddy? What are you..." 

"In brief, son, because we have *many* things to cover: The ally who helped me finally find -- and torture, and *nearly* murder, and *imprison* -- Guillou? Is a man named Jason Blood. He is an immortal British blood, fire, and shadow-mage --" 

"Uhh..." 

"He has *become*, after some fits and starts and a great *deal* of off-sphere traveling on his part --" 

"*About* that --" 

"-- a member of my *pack*. And, thanks to something *I* did when we met... well, he has the power to *share* that immortality now," Daddy says, and raises that *teaching* eyebrow. "And so do the mages he shares immortality *with*." 

Porthos -- flushes. "You... uh. So... that's why you bound me again."

Daddy inclines his head. "The All-Mother is going to be *somewhat* unhappy with me for not *asking* you -- again -- but, frankly, the prospect of losing you was... too much." 

"And. I won't lose *you*." 

"No, son. You will not." 

Porthos nods and licks his lips. 

Tries to think about how this will all -- no. He's not ready for that. Not yet. He's *ready* to take a bloody *breath*. So he does that.

And then he does it a few more times. 

"Good son," Daddy says, and strokes his beard, and his hair -- 

His beard again -- 

His *throat* -- 

He *lingers* on the bite-scar -- 

The *binding*-scar -- 

(Mine. Forever.) 

Porthos shivers -- and looks at Daddy. Just -- 

"Too much, son?" 

"It was honest, so -- no." 

Daddy cocks his head to the side *exactly* like the dog he is. 

"I'm still not going to get all twisted round expecting you to act like the *human* you're *not*, Daddy." 

"But you are going to need time to adjust to all of this. I can feel it." 

"I -- I don't adjust to things. Uh." 

"Mm?" 

"I don't adjust to things *alone*, Daddy. That's all." 

Daddy flares his nostrils and, if anything, his eyes gleam hotter than they did when he was actively *fucking* Porthos. "I need you." 

"You've got me, Daddy. I just -- I do have more questions." 

"I need those, too," Daddy says, and smiles *gently*, which looks decidedly odd with those gleaming eyes. 

"Did you -- I mean. Is *Athos* immortal? The rest of the pack?" 

Daddy inclines his head. "I broke when I lost your mother, son. Not being able to find you even *after* Jason and I had done for Guillou..." He shows his teeth again. "I think, perhaps, one or two members of the pack were hesitant *inside* when I came to them *begging* to give them the immortality I had been given... but they knew I needed it like nothing else. Knew I was..." He shakes his head. "I should say, son -- it's functional immortality, and not absolute. Sufficient force applied in a sufficiently brief period of time *can* kill you before your body heals enough of the damage that you can escape and heal the rest. But..." 

"That's a really large amount of force, yeah, I hear you," Porthos says, and nods. And smiles ruefully. "I never would've said no, you know. It's only the idea of living forever *without* a family that -- scares me." 

Daddy gives him a *soft* smile. "I feel just the same. I *felt* just the same when Jason told me that saving his life -- the *way* I'd saved his life -- *had* given me immortality... well. *Athos* has been asking me -- subtly and gently -- for *months* if he might tell you..." 

Porthos blinks -- "Right, well, I'm *starting* to see more of why you were planning to throw me down his trousers." 

Daddy snorts. "I have no idea..." 

"Mm?" 

"*Athos* isn't a mage. He couldn't have given you this. Neither could anyone in the pack *other* than me or *Jason*, who doesn't spend nearly enough time on this *sphere* -- especially not when he's received intelligence about one of his countless private wars against assorted *deities*." 

"Uhh..." 

"I'll explain everything. But -- no. It *would've* seemed like an *excellent* idea to give you this *myself*..." 

"And so you would've... bitten me?"

"That's right. *With* your permission."

Porthos licks his lips. "And we would've suddenly just... known everything about each other? Who we *are* to each other?" 

"That's right, son. There's enough blood-magery in the *original* binding between us that it couldn't have gone any other way. And then... I don't know. I don't know *anything* about how I would've reacted to seeing my newly-discovered *son* walking out the door to make love with my *godson*." 

"Well, I'm thinking you'd probably toss yourself off, first and foremost." 

Daddy splutters. "*Son* --" 

"Then I'm thinking -- maybe some stalking? Or would you..." Porthos strokes *his* beard. "If *not* stalking, you'd probably glamour yourself up in some not *quite* adequate way --" 

"I --" 

"And make up a fake name you hated so much you *flinched* every time someone used it --" 

"Hm." 

"And then you would take yourself to some boys' brothel, where you'd *instead* hook up with your long-lost *daughter* --" 

Daddy *chokes* -- 

"-- who is *absolutely* also a deviant --" 

"Good, good --" 

"She looks *excellent* in breeches --" 

"I." Daddy *looks* at Porthos. 

"Don't quell me now, Daddy; I need to get the details of this straight so I can toss myself off to it later." 

Daddy *grips* Porthos's cock -- 

"Oh, shit --" 

"While I'll never deny my son... avenues for his creativity --" 

"Avenues are -- uh -- sodding *important* -- *shit* --" 

And Daddy starts stroking him slowly and *meanly* -- 

"*Fuck* --" 

Daddy *grins* -- "I think you need to have a more realistic view of how much.. singular sexuality is going to be *feasible* for you, during those times when I'm not fucking you blind, son." 

"I think you just said something bloody important, Daddy, which is why I'm glad you're the sort of kind, forgiving man who'll repeat his lessons when that sort of thing proves -- proves *necessary* -- *fuck* --" 

Daddy laughs low and *filthily* -- 

And Porthos throws his head back and starts *shoving* into that fist. 

They can *absolutely* worry about everything else *later*.


	9. In which the pack begins the process of adjusting *themselves*.

Treville rests in a somewhat lackadaisical pin of his beautiful son and just -- watches. 

Watches him sleep. 

Watches him breathe. 

Watches him *exist*. 

Right now, Treville is holding himself behind a *moderately* thick privacy-wall -- much thinner than that and Porthos wouldn't be able to rest through Treville's observations -- and he is -- 

He is weeping, just a little. 

Silently. 

Happily. 

(Meneur, this is *well*, but you must let us *speak* with him!) 

Kitos booms a laugh -- and, as ever, it's far quieter within the space their souls share than it would be outside of it. (We *have* spoken with him, fox-face! Now we have to deal with what he *already* thinks about us --) 

(*You* can say this with impunity, verrat. He does not see you as -- as --) 

Laurent hums. (The terrifyingly... changeable individual who can and will commit acts of explosive violence should he be -- incomprehensibly -- provoked...?) 

(Mon *frère*. There is *nothing* incomprehensible about me! I am notre meneur's *weapon* --) 

Treville laughs -- 

(*Meneur*!) 

Easy, brother, *easy*. I told him that. I *showed* him that. Remember? 

(Not *enough* --) 

Toujours pas assez, Treville says, putting just a bit of a growl into it... 

And Reynard... pauses. Tangibly. 

Treville growls *low* -- 

(Oh -- toujours pas *assez*, meneur, mais...) 

Mm? 

(We will *teach* notre neveu...?) 

Everything, brother. We'll teach him everything about *everything*, Treville says, breathing deep and sharing the *overlapping* scents of his perfect son -- but especially the scents of his contentment and satisfaction. 

His pack sighs nearly as one, including Marie-Angelique, who has been keeping her own counsel. It's *almost* perfect, even with Jason wreaking havoc Somewhere Else. 

Even with Porthos apart from him. 

Even with Athos and Thomas apart from *them* -- hm. 

*Both* the dog and the dog Treville is... nudge Marie-Angelique. 

(*Oh* -- mm. As you *say*, brother,) Marie-Angelique says, and shares the feel of a *thoughtful* flush among them. (There is nothing dire in this moment...)

(Please share what *is* there, wife.) 

(Yes, husband. I... I look to our brother and his son -- I *taste* our brother and his *beloved* son...

(I taste their *happiness*...) 

(Wife...?) 

(I taste their happiness, husband... and I cannot help but think of us, and our own sons.) 

*Laurent* pauses tangibly. For a *while*. 

Which is good, because it gives Reynard time to cough himself breathless -- 

*Kitos* time to stammer like a *boy* -- 

And Treville time to *scour* his mind until he's staring at -- well, no, he's *not* staring at nothing, and he *won't* be staring at nothing for a good, long while. That's just how he *works* -- 

(And. How I work. As well,) Laurent says. 

Marie-Angelique hums. 

Right, well -- hm. Think about it *first*, please. And not just the sticky parts of it. Think about what it will *do* to your *relationships* with them to even ask the *question* -- 

(The way you thought about it, brother...?) 

*Laurent* -- 

(No.) 

*Please* -- 

(You're heard, Treville,) Marie-Angelique says -- 

(*Wife* --)

(I would not have *let* you do this without planning it at least as well, at least as *thoroughly*, with at least as many *fail*-safes... as you planned a *campaign*, husband.) 

And Laurent sends the feel of himself stiffening and blushing *under* a flush -- being *thoroughly* pulled up short. 

Reynard takes a deep *breath* -- 

Kitos *swallows*. (Look, all of you -- this was bloody *bound* to happen -- *literally*! -- with Fearless. It would probably have happened with our Amina, *too*, if we still had her --) 

*Treville* flushes -- *Kitos* -- 

(You shut it, Fearless! It's not your bloody turn! Just -- they were built that way, hey? And the sodding magic just made things even *more* that way -- *and made Porthos that way, too*. Before he could've had any choice in the matter. Before he was even *born*. Now, I know what you want to say about you and Laurent, Marie-Angelique. But can you *honestly* say the same about your boys? Are you *sure*?) 

Marie-Angelique takes her *own* breath. (There is precisely one way to *be* certain about *anything* in this world --) 

(And I say -- I *must* say --) And Reynard clears his throat. (It is, peut-être, sometimes better to *not* be certain. To allow for... innocence.) 

But that... Treville winces. 

(Bloody hell, Fearless, *why* do you disagree with that? You've *always* left the boys alone who weren't ready for it!) 

I have, and I always *will*, brother. I just can't help but wonder how much innocence there can *be*... once Porthos returns to the garrison -- returns to *Athos* -- with my bite-scar on his throat and my *spend* leaking out of his *arse*. 

(*Merde* --) 

(Ah, fuck -- and of course the boys will talk about it --) 

(Talk about *everything* --) 

Athos will know, within *minutes*, that Porthos is in a decidedly sexual relationship with his *father*... who also happens to be Athos's godfather and Uncle. There are going to be, at the *very* least, questions we *all* have to answer, and --

(I want.) And Laurent shivers like a horse through the bond -- 

(Husband --) 

(Brother,) Laurent says, to *him*. (Please -- let *us* answer at least *some* of our sons' questions.) 

Reynard inhales sharply -- 

Kitos *frowns* -- 

Marie-Angelique keeps her *counsel* again -- 

And all Treville can think about, in *this* moment, is the sheer number of times when it was he who Laurent sent back to his manor to pay his respects to Marie-Angelique and the boys. When it was *he* who gave Athos his training, and Thomas the few lessons in protocol that Marie-Angelique hadn't *already* given him. When it was he who rode with the boys, and hunted with Athos, and watched Thomas perform scenes from plays, and -- 

And was, in *every* way, the father to them that *duty* wouldn't *allow* Laurent to be. 

He's making up for lost time, now, but -- the time was still lost. 

And -- and. He knows Reynard, Kitos, and Marie-Angelique are, at least in part, thinking of the same damned things behind *nested* privacy-walls of their own. That's no good. 

Treville pulls down everything but the wall separating this conversation from Porthos -- 

The others pull down everything but the wall separating this conversation from Athos and Thomas -- 

And Treville nods. I'll send them to you, brother. To both of you. For -- as many of the questions they have about the changing relationships and everything else as possible. 

Laurent and Marie-Angelique *both* take shuddering breaths -- and let every last one of them *feel* Marie-Angelique's *grip* on Laurent's spirit. 

He smiles wryly. (I will begin... planning my campaign. And finding every last fragment of my control.) 

Kitos laughs ruefully. (We know you'll find them when the time comes, brother.) 

(Ah, oui, oui. Notre frère, he has always had the nose of a bloodhound for such things.) 

Laurent hums again. (You *may* be thinking of a *slightly* different frère, Reynard...) 

(Non, non. Notre meneur's nose opens for *different* things.) 

(Perhaps not quite so *very* different -- well. May we -- all of us -- discuss this matter again?) 

(Laurent, I'm going to be very honest with you right now,) Kitos says, and sends the feel of a thickening atmosphere of absolute *brutality* through the binding. 

(Ah. Hm. I *am* listening, brother...) 

(Right. If you *don't* talk about this -- about *all* your feelings about your children -- with all of *us*? The way you *obviously* bloody haven't been? I will beat you unconscious twice a day *every* day, at random times, in public, whether or *not* you eventually learn your lesson.) 

Treville *blinks* -- 

Marie-Angelique sighs happily -- and lustfully. 

Reynard snickers. 

Laurent sends the feel of himself licking his lips -- (Hm. I...) 

(Yes, brother?) 

(Noted. As I do not *wish* to be either beaten unconscious or forced to challenge you to swordplay which would end in your *death*... I will... behave.) 

Marie-Angelique croons a little. 

(Wife --) 

(No, no, go on. This is all *intensely* entertaining.) 

(Hm.) 

Reynard snickers *more* -- 

Kitos *thunders* laughter -- 

And Treville drinks absolutely all of it in... as he goes back to focusing, just a little, on his sleeping son. 

There's a peaceful smile on his face that Treville wants to lick -- 

They're both getting sweatier where they're touching -- 

Porthos might wake up if he's uncomfortable -- 

(That's a godawful excuse, Fearless, and you know it. Just shift and have done, or I'll tell Jason you've been *neglecting* the dog when he gets back from wherever the hell he's gotten to this time.) 

I'm not -- 

Kitos sends the feel of him lowering his *chin*. And *looking* at him. 

*Fuck* -- all *right*, brother, but --

(You are not *hard*, meneur --) 

(There is, in fact, no better time for it,) Laurent says, and raises an eyebrow at him entirely tangibly. 

Marie-Angelique... reaches *through* the bond -- and Treville -- to *stroke* the dog, who is rumbling and eager, rumbling and *rising* -- 

Pack is close! 

The boy is close at last! HIS boy! HIS BOY!

And that's exactly all he can take. Treville moves away from Porthos enough that the shift won't hurt him -- 

No no they need the BOY -- 

His name is *Porthos*, Treville says to the dog. Porthos Porthos. 

PORTHOS his boy is PORTHOS and he will call him that all the time and Treville needs to get out of the WAY -- 

Here, Treville says, and moves -- 

Shifts -- 

The dog rises and -- 

Now, now, the dog can smell that their boy, their PORTHOS, is asleep! It is NOT time for play, or even for training, or even for discussion of important things. But... it IS time for cuddles! 

Treville has left him time for cuddles! 

He *is* sometimes a good boy! And -- no, the dog shoves Treville *down* when he starts to say something -- 

It's his time now! His!

Treville subsides good-naturedly -- 

And the dog jumps lightly up onto the big bed, careful and careful, because he can smell that his PORTHOS has already woken up just a little bit. 

He is a GOOD father! He will let his PORTHOS rest!

So. 

He curls up, close and close, one paw on PORTHOS'S heavy forearm, tail thumping against his thigh, and he closes his eyes. 

When he asks, the All-Mother shows him that PORTHOS is dreaming of being cold, and small, but not alone. There are many small humans surrounding him, and many of them are laughing -- though not as BIG as PORTHOS. 

Not as BIG as AMINA. 

AMINA is not there, even though she should be, with PORTHOS so small... 

Treville tries to say *something* -- it is not. His. TIME! The dog pushes Treville *down*, and pushes PORTHOS'S dreams away, and gives PORTHOS, instead, many dreams of AMINA.

Memories of *both* of them laughing big, even when PORTHOS was small and small and small -- and the dog knew, even then, that most human and human-like babies weren't capable of this so young!

Special boy! HIS BOY!

His boy *with* Treville, and with AMINA and *her* dog, and they were meant to give PORTHOS a pack, a proper *pack*, and now the memories are getting jumbled, now the dog is whining too much to be -- 

To be *right* -- 

And PORTHOS gasps awake and sits *up* -- 

The dog pounces to make him *lay* -- 

"Oh -- *fuck* -- uh. Hello? I mean -- I know -- right, you're the dog, Treville's dog, and I'm just going to..." PORTHOS licks his lips and takes a breath. "What do I call you?" 

He is the dog! PORTHOS'S dog!

PORTHOS frowns as if that wasn't *clear* -- 

And then Treville rears up a little and suggests -- oh. The dog *reaches* for PORTHOS, reaches deep within him, even as they touch, paws to good, strong chest -- 

PORTHOS grunts, eyes widening -- and then he grins. "Right. I'll just call you Dog, eh?" 

The dog grins back and pants. His PORTHOS is a good, intelligent boy. 

PORTHOS *shivers* and grins -- "I um. I like that. I didn't think..." He grins wider. "I like that."

Good! What else do you like? What else is good?

PORTHOS reaches up and scratches behind the dog's ears, and it's perfect, so -- 

OH GOOD OH NICE -- but tell me!

"I like petting you -- a lot --" 

What *else*, good boy? 

"I like the dreams you were giving me --" 

I will do that all the time! So will Treville! 

PORTHOS shivers again. "Thank you for that."

GOOD BOY GOOD -- I have to make you happy. I have to make you safe. I have to make you warm and comfortable and educated and fed. I have to... have to...

"Yeah, Dog? I -- I can't really wrap my head around -- but no, you tell *me* --" 

The dog looks into his PORTHOS'S eyes and reaches *more*, grips *harder*, and he knows it's too hard, knows it's too *much* -- 

"Fuck fuck *fuck* -- uh. Dog? What are you --" 

MY GOOD BOY. You have to see. You have to know! 

"Yeah, all right, anything you -- oh. Oh..." 

And the dog stares into his PORTHOS'S dark eyes -- 

So much *like* his AMINA-MATE'S eyes -- 

He finds knowledge. *Comprehension*. He finds -- 

"You uh. You were *made* for -- me. For -- for -- the All-Mother *felt* what those other witches were doing with Mum and Daddy, with *me* in Mum's belly, and She sent you to Daddy special, when it was time. She -- She couldn't do anything with any of us *directly*, at the time, but She could send you --" 

And AMINA-MATE'S dog!

"Right, right. And -- the All-Mother changed you both 'round a bit? So you'd be even *more* protective of me?"

You are our BOY! We... we... and the dog whines when he thinks of AMINA-MATE'S dog, when he thinks of *both* of them dying without them, without the rest of the *pack* -- 

"It bloody *kills* me --" 

AMINA-MATE'S dog died protecting you. That is the *only* acceptable way!

His PORTHOS jerks back, away -- *no*. 

The dog leans in and licks him, licks to soothe, licks to greet, to welcome, to *show* -- 

The part of Porthos that is their *mate* -- the part that is bound to them *twice* now -- cups the dog's face and licks back, licks his *acceptance*, licks his *acceptance* -- but the dog does not need Treville's warning *pull* on *both* of them to know that their good boy is not accepting everything --

Or. Does he? 

Treville is giving the dog more words now, and bigger and broader thoughts -- 

Treville is giving the dog their PORTHOS'S moments of true fear tonight, and his repeated attempts to pull back from intimacy -- including the moment only a few minutes ago. 

The dog will listen. 

The dog will listen -- but also see for *himself*.

He licks *into* their PORTHOS'S mouth -- 

"*Mmph* -- mmm..." 

\-- and then he *waits*. It only takes a moment: 

Their PORTHOS pulls back, smiles ruefully, and shakes his head. "I uh. Not tonight? I'd like to... know more first. About everything and everyone. *Especially* you." 

This, the dog knows, is not *truly* being pushed away. 

This is warm, heavy, *strong* hands petting him over his ribs -- and one of them moves back to scratching behind his ears. 

This is a collection of scents that includes curiosity and wonder and *arousal* when the dog curls in to lick his cock enough to *quiet* it. 

This is his GOOD BOY, HIS, moving closer without being asked, without being *begged*, petting and stroking and scratching and rumbling, *holding* -- "You feel so good, you know. You... I shouldn't at *all* be surprised that you feel just as good as Daddy," Porthos says, laughing so BIG, *easing* something in the dog that the dog hadn't known was crumpled, tight, *helpless*, *lonely* -- 

This is his PORTHOS, laughing even more, and leaning in to lick his nose, before lying back and tugging the dog into a sprawl over his chest and belly. *This* laugh is somewhat *breathless* -- 

"You're such a perfect *dog* --" 

YOUR dog, good boy. YOURS, the dog says, and tries not to croon too much as their PORTHOS sighs sweetly and relaxes and breathes himself back down to sleep -- 

As he *reflexively* opens himself even more to the dog!

And -- to Treville, as well. 

The dog will remember this. The dog will be patient. 

Treville, after all, has *given* them time... and the good boy will always be theirs. 

end.


End file.
